Gilgamesh is Done

RT thought he might never get to this moment, but at last he can say: Gilgamesh is done. All the 11 tablets and the envoi—all 3,900 lines—are complete, though some polishing remains. RT has begun assembling a master electronic file.

It is an amazing moment. When he wrote out the first stanza in October 2000, that’s right, more than 17 years ago, our author had no idea what he was getting into, or how much of himself he would invest in the enterprise. But then, Gilgamesh is one of the great portraits of the human condition—of our struggle, in the midst of a vast and inscrutable universe, for beauty and meaning. As the Ferryman tells Gilgamesh near the end of the epic:

Urshanabi addressed the king’s bitter remorse:

“Do not despair! For wisdom, the lion’s roar,

your heart’s divided genius, you have toiled.

The mouth of death is shut; it speaks no stay,

but out of the Deep Waters you bring your name,

a sign and wonder to all flesh bound by time.”

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Much remains to be done, of course: start looking for the book on Lulu and Amazon in the summer, and RT is planning a 100-copy private printing, when he finds the money.

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In the meantime, RT’s life has grown yet more complicated, but more of that in the next post. And if the author has one regret, it is that his mother is not here to share in the achievement with him. But then, there must be a reason…and certainly this is the happiest news for RT at year’s end.

Happy New Year!

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Photo: Stela of Ur–Nammu. WikiCmns, Public Domain. 

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Little Apocalypse, a poem

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RT has been uncharacteristically silent these past few months as various matters tangential to his writing but nonetheless important (for instance, his health) have continued to preoccupy him. The good news is that he has made significant progress on tablets 5 and 6 of Gilgamesh, hoping to finish the poem by fall. He has even at odd moments set down a brief poem.

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This particular piece was inspired by Peregrine, the recently (and first) published collection of fellow scribbler, Tom Donlon. Tom’s impeccable craftsmanship and domestic themes have won RT’s admiration, especially since his poems have a way of opening out on broader perspectives.  Sadly, Peregrine (Franciscan University of Steubenville) is not commercially available, but the poem that sparked this piece, “Tsunami” is available in the collection, ONLY THE SEA KEEPS: Poetry of the Tsunami (Bayeux Arts, 2005, available on Amazon). 

A fine poet and a fine collection. Here is RT’s response:

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little apocalypse

(for Tom Donlon)

the voice of the day proceeds carefully

through the clouds, the

ritual of its trajectory a carpenter’s pencil

sketching out the pilot in his craft, the

child tottering through its first step, the

ballet lessons and headless Barbies. 

the

stillness of sermon, like sitting in traffic 

on route 9, tsunami of grace overwhelming 

the driver, pushing aside everything else, 

leaving 

only the fact of its words shining in the long

silence, to be approached on knee over 

snow, rough tezontle stone,

tearing postulant flesh—almost as 

if with obsidian knife, the truth pouring out—

as once before jadeite gods opulent

in the carven glyph, now overturned

in the high, thin air glinting with dust.

Malinalli, our lady of waving grass, 

Marina, one of the native gift to Cortés;

the horse rearing muscular like an angel,

panicked eye, flaring nostril—

Calmese! the ships are burning.
 

Copyright, Eric Quinn, 2017

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Drawing: Cortes and Mallinali meet Mocteczuma II, November 9, 1519. Unknown Aztec artist. Public Domain. 

Tablet 11 & Other News

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The fast and furious transformation that has overtaken RT since his mother’s death continues apace. He will start by mentioning that he has recently bought his first smartphone. That’s right, he just dictated, not typed, the previous sentence. And it was a lot easier than typing the current one.

On top of that, RT has recently moved, though not terribly far afield. His new digs are far larger and more comfortable than the old and not terribly more expensive. He has also been luxuriating in his new computer chair, which leads him to his next topic.

Tablet 11 of Gilgamesh is done. Yes, you heard that right: the tablet that RT started work on in October 2000 is finished, right down to the very last frisson of its apocalyptic vision. Chew them beans.

By way of celebrating  (insofar as one can celebrate the Flood), RT offers below a snippet of the great  catastrophe that inaugurated (at least in part) Western religious experience.

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iii. Warning

“Of gods most shrewd, Enki, Lord of Waters,

Schemed to save a man.  He spoke to me:

‘Reed hut, reed hut, wall, wall! Hear your father:

man of Shurrupak, son of renowned strength—  

abandon your house, renounce your wealth.

The life of all human flesh is forfeit!’

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“Urgent, he whispered news and secret guidance:

‘Build the boat a cube: a mile each side. 

Roof her straight and strong like heaven’s house.’

Appalled, I understood and pledged my part.

And still I recognized a flaw in the plan:

‘What will I tell my neighbors and the people?’

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“‘With these words you will quiet their speculation:

“Enlil of thunderbolts has condemned my life:

I escape into the waters, enjoying the deep,

Enki my compassionate father’s kindness.’ 

Say also: ‘To you Enlil sends true wealth,

a day of bright blessings and rich feasting.

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“‘The morning showers down angel’s bread;

the dusk bestows a rain of shining wheat.’

The god left me then, unseen as he had come.

I paused, reflected, planning this thing—

seven days was all I had to save our kind,

seven days to rescue our mortal wisdom.”

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iv. Ship

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“When dawn, when Utu climbs above the earth,

the skilled craftsmen assembled at my gate:

The carpenter carrying his hatchet and chisel, 

the shaper of reeds with his flattening stone,

the ingenious shipwright wielding his axe.

The children carried pitch; the women cooked.

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“The boat’s design was unfamiliar, elaborate;

the hull was immense, enclosing a perfect cube.

I built the vast decks, seven in number, 

six to store the seed of all the world’s life.

Partitions, exactly nine, each a shelter,

each to hold a different kind of beast.

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“In five days I finished, pitched and plugged the boat.

 I provisioned the ship with gear of every kind—

punting poles beyond count, ropes and blocks, 

pots and jars—endless quantities—of pitch,

and food for all—oil fresh-pressed and fine,

every kind of forage and meal for the beasts.

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“Sunset of the last day saw the boat complete. 

To launch her needed straining, stretching strength; 

in dark she floated. I set a table for our men:

ale, oil, wine flowed as if at New Year’s.

After plate I brought on board beast and plant,

also my family and treasure we might require.”

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Copyright 2017, Eric Quinn

Image: Protective Geni, WikiCmns, Public Domain.

three shorts #3

A little while back, RT fell on a concrete patio and fractured a rib. These things, painful as they are, can focus our energies and get us moving again. They can also drive us a little crazy, which might not be a bad thing, either.

Which brings us to tonight’s set of poems (and by the way, the rib seems to be healing nicely). All poems have an appointment with an anonymous meaning coach, which they may or may not keep. RT isn’t sure about this set, sidetracked, perhaps, by certain siren calls. The coach, in the meantime, taps its fingers loudly, as it should; we don’t want our words to be mish-mash.

The bargain isn’t easily struck. Each poem has its own inner necessity or logic, which is the meaning that it offers. But like the electric guitars that RT was listening to while he composed, such steely structure is offset by shape, color, tuning, and a combination of visual and musical drama. Poems can give little guidance as they emerge, or maybe all that is needed. It’s about what sounds good. And what means something (but what?).

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three shorts #3

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your fractured rib is;

mind forgotten, tottering.

death laughs; you laugh, gasp.

#

the boy next door curses—

proud, the cell-phone hum-a-lums

you back. buzz, beer bee!

#

before you, being

and ere February pass,

your car eyes. fat snow.

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© 2017, The Rag Tree

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Photo:  1990 Yamaha Pacifica 921.  Freebird from Madrid, Spain. WikiCmns. CC BY-SA 2.0.

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Du Fu, Winding River 1

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Introspection has not been much in vogue for, well, the last four or five centuries, at least in the West, anyway. The man of thought has become the man of action, the one who changes the world, makes things better. As we head pell-mell into the post-digital, post-handwritten, robot-manufactured world, the question of just where we might be going should give us pause for thought. Certainly the notion that the very act of thinking could itself alter the world, build its complexity and beauty, and of course its wisdom, would meet with a sceptical response these days. Yet RT suspects that something like this understanding lies close to the heart of Eastern religion and art. This is the world we dream of, the world which heals us and in which we have our true place. It is not magic, but a sense of a broader connection to our surroundings.

Du Fu seems to have started his career as a gifted poet, but one who had not met with profound suffering. The collapse of China in the mid-8th century forced him to flee the capital, and to confront in a basic way his life and the unfolding of history around him. Out of his despair he refashioned the possibilities of Chinese poetry, the Chinese people, and RT would argue, the possibilities of humanity as it today struggles with overwhelming change.

…

Winding River 1

Du Fu

 

a last petal falling marks the close of spring;

trees shed their 10,000 tears in contentious winds.

I’ll drink my wine, then, and examine

blossoms lying trampled in the mud.

 

and yet, in the abandoned riverside pavilion,

kingfishers flash and mate. At the foot

of high tombs in the park, stone unicorns

rest in conjugal silence.

 

all things live in their joy—

exiled from the palace, I wander,

fame forgotten.

 

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Photo: Statues in the Imperial Tomb of Tang Emperor Gaozong. Zingaro. WikiCmns. CC BY 2.0.

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Amulet–A Poem

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Poems have a shaggy-dog quality; RT never knows just what may show up at his front door next. This particular inspiration began to emerge shortly after a manuscript discussion group featuring some old poetry buddies, a situation well-known among scribblers to produce new work. And it’s been a while since any critter, however shaggy, has come to RT’s attention. And so, with a brief nod of thanks to the muse:

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Amulet

*****It’s always 2 o’clock.

You told the lady a lie,

shed the skin of indifference.

The moment will not end,

hissing, sliding, ash ragged in

the air. The cherub is gone.

 

It’s still 2 o’clock, damn them.

They’ve taken your feet, your arms,

your teeth rotten with venom.

*****So what about the fruit?

*****Of course they wanted a bite, naked

down in the hollow of truth.

 

3 o’clock and

the cherub, head smashed, lies

half-buried in sand. The ones that burn say:

How could you? You blink. Those are

your teeth sown in the ground, your words

*****winding across the page.

 

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Photo: Amulet of Mithras Slaying the Bull and the God Abraxas (Walters 42868). 3rd century. Walters Museum of Art. WikiCmns; CC Attribution-Share Alike 3.0.

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Hillary Clinton: Policy Wonk and Reluctant Revolutionary

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RT was 26 when this photograph was taken; Ronald Reagan was 76; Nancy Reagan, 65; Bill Clinton, 40; Hillary Clinton, 39. Wikipedia reports: In 1900, non-Hispanic whites comprised almost 97% of the population of the 10 largest American cities. By 2006, non-Hispanic whites had dwindled to a minority in 35 of the nation’s 50 largest cities. In 2000, the U.S. population stood at 281 million; today, it is estimated to be 324 million (a 15% increase). In 1990, 86% of the U.S. population was Christian; that figure has since dropped to 70%. Finally, the Pew Research Center reports that the purchasing power of American workers has remained essentially unchanged since 1964.

Certainly a lot to think about, and that is one of the reasons that RT supports Hillary Clinton in Tuesday’s presidential election. The country is in the middle of a sweeping transformation that has generated deep-seated panic and anger among Americans. What is needed at a moment like this is clear thinking.

Of course, at some level, the United States has always been about change, hopefully in the form of progress, though our country’s history demonstrates that that can take its own sweet time. Something new is struggling to be born, but that is always the case.

Look hard at the usual answers. Don’t just create jobs, create prosperity. Don’t build a wall, create a just and generous guest worker program. Work to make sure that taxes pay for necessary services that individual states and private foundations, however wealthy, simply can’t afford to fund. Above all, work to create mutual understanding and cooperation, i.e., plain old goodwill. That is challenge and achievement enough.

We are all federalists, we are all republicans, as Thomas Jefferson once put it. If the other party’s candidate gets elected, exercise your right to protest, to have your grievances and opinions heard. But also do your best to hear and respond to the legitimate worries and priorities of the other side.

And by the way, RT urges everyone to vote. Take the day off, if you have to. Elections, after all, are important.

RT thinks that Hillary Clinton is by far the better candidate. Her abilities and achievements speak for themselves. But if Donald Trump should win on Tuesday, he will not go running to the post office to get a passport application. RT believes in the system, with all its flaws and failures. It has given us our first black president, and, he thinks, it will soon give us the first woman in the oval office. The arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends towards justice. 

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Photo: President Ronald Reagan, Nancy Reagan, Bill Clinton and Hillary Clinton attending the Dinner Honoring the Nation’s Governors. 22 February 1987. Reagan Library Archives. WikiCmns; Public Domain.

Sioux Warriors: The Long Struggle

 

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Halloween, the Day the Dead Walk; RT has been dealing with some ghosts of his own as we approach the end of the Celtic year, which may explain why out of the blue he checked out Larry McMurtry’s fine short biography of Crazy Horse, the famous Sioux warrior. Not much is known about Crazy Horse himself (though we do know that he was averse to being photographed), but quite a bit is known about the Sioux people and their struggle to save their land and way of life from encroaching settlers. And perhaps no survival from that long fight is more remarkable than this group portrait of many of the principal Sioux leaders. Though these men were active for decades, they are best remembered for their participation in the famous Great Sioux War of 1876, which gave us the Battle of the Little Bighorn, aka Custer’s Last Stand.

Hold on to your hats, folks, here they are:

Seated, L to R: Yellow Bear, Red Cloud, Big Road, Little Wound, Black Crow.

Standing, L to R: Red Bear, Young Man Afraid of his Horse, Good Voice, Ring Thunder, Iron Crow, White Tail, Young Spotted Tail.

To give the reader some idea of the scope of these men’s lives, RT offers a pair of brief biographical notes:

Red Cloud (1822-December 10, 1909). Best known as the leader of Red Cloud’s War (1866-1868); fought to protect the Powder River country from encroachment by whites. The Sioux were victorious, in particular winning the Fetterman Fight, one of the worst defeats the U.S. Army experiencing during its struggle with the Sioux. Also prominent as a negotiator and diplomat on behalf of the Sioux, including the negotiation of the Treaty of Fort Laramie (1868).

Young Man Afraid Of His Horses (1836-July 13, 1893). Fought during Red Cloud’s War. A prominent Indian negotiator, active until the end of the Sioux wars in the early 1890s and especially in the aftermath of the Wounded Knee Massacre.

As the Dakota access pipeline protests bear witness to, the long struggle of the Sioux to preserve their traditional way of life is not yet over.

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Photograph: Red Cloud and Other Sioux. circa 1860-1880. Library of Congress. WikiCmns. Public Domain.

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Kameda Bosai, Old Trees

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RT has been resolutely ignoring his creative impulses (such as they were) in the face of the many tasks (not the least of which is grieving) that have followed on his mother’s death. Resolutely ignoring, that is, until a spontaneous visit to his local bookstore brought him face-to-face with an alluring poem by Kameda Bosai, a Japanese poet (or rather, scholar and literati painter) that RT had never heard of before. Well, the temptation proved too much for the sterner angels of RT’s nature, and he offers the results of his latest foray into translation below. He knows that mom would approve.

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old trees crimson at spring’s glance;

waterfalls icy, smash and echo.

imagine a mountain hermit swaying,

collapsing into laughter. water-stars, wind.

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(Dedicated to Andy and Janet)

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Image: Confucian Poem, Kameda Bosai. circa 1820-1824. Los Angeles County Museum of Art. WikiCmns. Public Domain.

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Still in the Game–Three Shorts

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RT has bursitis in his left hip. It’s an occupational hazard for those over 50, and he is treating it with ice and exercise. Unfortunately, he hasn’t found a chair that doesn’t contribute to the problem, but the long-delayed trip to Lowe’s should take care of things.

And in the meantime, he is beginning to work on a new collection of poetry, Naming the Spirit. RT had thought that this would be a relatively straightforward affair, but realities such as grief and a larger and more diverse collection of written materials than he had realized are complicating matters. And maybe they should. Additional materials may be forthcoming, if only to balance out the book’s rather somber tone. Grief after all is a kind of healing.

Here are a trio of short poems, the first two fairly old, and brighter in tone than not.

 

Three Shorts

 

Should I take a shower?

Dirt under my fingernails,

and I feel alive.

 

 

ratty hair—

not many places allow

a man to be beautiful

 

 

shoe laces undone.

deep mud—slipping, left leg splayed…

undamaged at 56.

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Illustration: Shoelace Knot; AnonMoos. WikiCmns; Public Domain.

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