WHEN in the course of human Events, it becomes necessary….
Welcome to the New American Digest: 2003-2020
Gerard Van der Leun
Stone-cutters fighting time with marble, you foredefeated
Challengers of oblivion
Eat cynical earnings, knowing rock splits, records fall down,
The square-limbed Roman letters
Scale in the thaws, wear in the rain. The poet as well
Builds his monument mockingly;
For man will be blotted out, the blithe earth die, the brave sun
Die blind and blacken to the heart:
Yet stones have stood for a thousand years, and pained
thoughts found
The honey of peace in old poems.
— Robinson Jeffers
His soul stretched tight across the skies
That fade behind a city block,
Or trampled by insistent feet
At four and five and six o’clock;
And short square fingers stuffing pipes,
And evening newspapers, and eyes
Assured of certain certainties,
The conscience of a blackened street
Impatient to assume the world.
I am moved by fancies that are curled
Around these images, and cling:
The notion of some infinitely gentle
Infinitely suffering thing.
Wipe your hand across your mouth, and laugh;
The worlds revolve like ancient women
Gathering fuel in vacant lots.
— Eliot
I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.
I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass.
My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this
air,
Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not till death.
— Walt Whitman
The scientists are in terror
and the European mind stops
Wyndham Lewis chose blindness
rather than have his mind stop.
Night under wind mid garofani,
the petals are almost still
Mozart, Linnaeus, Sulmona,
When one’s friends hate each other
how can there be peace in the world?
Their asperities diverted me in my green time.
A blown husk that is finished
but the light sings eternal
a pale flare over marshes
where the salt hay whispers to tide’s change
Time, space,
neither life nor death is the answer.
And of man seeking good,
doing evil.
In meiner Heimat
where the dead walked
and the living were made of cardboard.
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What a tough reminder, Gerard. Interestingly enough I was thinking about “last times” yesterday. As we’re getting older, there will be more and more last times. Which is appropriate, I think, since the first half of our lives is filled with “first times.” And the more first times we had, the more last times we’ll have.
Driving through downtown this afternoon, I realized I had already take my last drive on the viaduct and through the Battery Street tunnel quite a while ago. I loved the viaduct and the tunnel. Pretty soon it will be the last time for a lot of things that we’ve been doing for most of our lives.
On September 10th we said our prayers, climbed into bed, turned out the light, and went to sleep. I heard once that God made the world round so that we couldn’t see too far off into the distance.
The trick is to keep hope alive.
It was a beautiful day.
The first plane rattled our windows.
Nine hours was all my ill health would allow me, long enough for the heated ground to take the soles off my shoes. I’m looking at the box on the shelf I keep them in, unopened since that day. Others have told me they did the same.
You could smell the bodies baking. The “curious, sweet smell” pervaded the air for months.