Wednesday, June 24, 2020

as if a cherry pit were stuck in the throat

When I hit lull here I look at what posted here same time every year 
my lulls have seasons. Wise some to calendar's whys my feints don't not work
I am typing this poem for example re: this is me each late June
Haiku standard sign seventeen by seventeen sheeyit seventeen?
my square rectangled on digital tablet bray, this is how I mope

My wife and daughter teachers, my parents teachers, aunts, uncles, teachers 
me, mite, thirty years at a university servicing teachers
Academic Years your junior year your senior year universes
wormholed but quadrant apart, it's hard on teachers all I want to say
this mostest late June since the last most June until next year's moster June


Joseph Ceravolo

Song birds enter the morning
the pre-dawn before the fires,
you know, when the night floats away
like vapor on a lake,
or like kisses in the woods.
Songs that even creation
might not remember.
Continuous, threaded, as if
a cherry pit were stuck
in the throat
to produce the trumpet of the branches.
So varies, yet never, changing
through all the days, since
reptiles fell to earth.
I give up the reason for the sound
I give up the creature of sound
and the creator of the creatures
and of us and of dawn and
air and of vacuum
and human inhumanity.
I give up the song.
I give up the place.

1 comment:

  1. 1)speaking of teaching and more specifically the technological and socioeconomic challenges facing the north american university in 2020, we can see the views of a professor of information technology and marketing -

    the pandemic, in addition to its specific disruptive effects, is also accelerating change that was already underway for other reasons

    and, thinking in my usual self-centered way, i wonder - how will it affect the nova scotian college town where three of my first cousins live and where i still imagine there is a chance spouse and self may spend our declining years, however many if any?

    2)and speaking of june

    beginning in november 1898 - when he was 58 - thomas hardy wrote

    Lines to a Movement in Mozart's E-flat Symphony

    Show me again the time
    When in the Junetide's prime
    We flew by meads and mountains northerly! -
    Yea, to such freshness, fairness, fulness, fineness, freeness,
    Love lures life on.

    Show me again the day
    When from the sandy bay
    We looked together upon the pestered sea! -
    Yea, to such surging, swaying, sighing, swelling, shrinking,
    Love lures life on.

    Show me again the hour
    When by the pinnacled tower
    We eyed each other and feared futurity! -
    Yea, to such bodings, broodings, beatings, blanchings, blessings,
    Love lures life on.

    Show me again just this:
    The moment of that kiss
    Away from the prancing folk, by the strawberry-tree! -
    Yea, to such rashness, ratheness, rareness, ripeness, richness,
    Love lures life on.

    a performance of the mentioned symphony of mozart, synchronized with a video of the score, can he enjoyed at

    the strawberry tree, mentioned by hardy, is interesting

    i had to look up again what 'ratheness' meant - after reading the definition i recalled a passage from paracelsus, brought to my attention by erich fromm

    “He who knows nothing, loves nothing. He who can do nothing understands nothing. He who understands nothing is worthless. But he who understands also loves, notices, sees … The more knowledge is inherent in a thing, the greater the love.… Anyone who imagines that all fruits ripen at the same time as the strawberries knows nothing about grapes.”