Oona Beatrix Haggerty. Born August 24th 2009.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:/Its loveliness increases; it will never/ Pass into nothingness; but still will keep/ A bower quiet for us, and a sleep/ Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing… John Keats. It was difficult to find a poetic response to the exquisite moment of meeting my Granddaughter.  A couple of months ago I began to re-read my own mother’s leather copy of The Poems of John Keats. On his tombstone was written [with no name at his own request]: Here lies one whose name was writ in water.  The feeling of great joy and great sorrow can melt one completely, dissolving who we take ourselves to be into the same ocean.

Monday night, just after several of us stood in line for, then tasted the best ice cream in Berkeley, Oona Beatrix Haggerty was born in a hospital just a few blocks from the ice cream store. It seems just after I wrote the last posting about waiting for the baby, Laura went into labor – a long labor, but one mercifully, without complications.

Last night I held her and fell into the eternity the new ones carry to us for awhile. Then I felt the hoop of continual life and death, and my new place along it’s curve. I spoke on the phone to Great-Grandmother Gloria, age 87, and felt her up ahead of me. Shabda sang an evening Raga to Oona and she slept.  I kissed my  courageous daughter-in-law and  hugged my son close, savoring our new roles – Grandmother, father, child.

Sweet and low, sweet and low,/Wind of the Western Sea!…/Over the rolling waters go/…While my little one, while my pretty one sleeps.. Alfred, Lord Tennyson.

Everything is going to change next week or the week after.  I have no doubt that is true. For the Sufi there is a kind of elevator that you are in and every now and then it changes floors unexpectedly. Once I was at a sacred place on the white-washed hillside above  Fez, Morocco, bathing in the atmosphere of a saint from centuries ago, when all-at-once I felt as though a large energy filled me and wished me to reach out and touch and empower my fellow travelers. When I felt like myself again, I was different, but my knowing Sufi guide and companion whispered to me, don’t think about it, just let it go. Wise words, because the western mind is always trying to understand stuff, bring experience into something we can examine. There is the human mystery known as labor and birth.. Afterwards, it’s like trying to fit into your 10-year-old shoes when you are 20. Time has marked you. You are on another floor and the elevator door is open and you walk out with your mind blank, changed from the woman who stepped into that “lift,” as they call an elevator in England. A painting can do that. Vermeer’s The Geographer, shows a man, bent over a book and a chart holding a compass. He’s lost in some geographical place or calculation, perhaps inside the flat world with the vanishing edge where boats disappeared… and that mood matches a cool filtered light which enters the painting through the lattice of clear window glass, then falls on the floor and the globe behind him. Great art can put you there, if you are lucky. Step out of the museum washed in that light.

Vermeer, The Geographer

When my son, Ammon, and his beautiful wife Laura become parents for the first time  – very soon–I will enter new light. So they say. In the mean time I am suspended like the geographer; I’m not exactly in the room with the compass and globe, and not quite at some imagined location in his vision. My life will change as when the elevator door opens. I will be a grandmother. My arms will hold a baby and my house will become a grandparent’s house. This is all a normal thing, they tell me; gates across the stairs, child-proof locks, weight training for lifting.  I’m impatient. What will the eyesof my granddaughter see when she looks at me? What will I see in her face? Like all great mysteries, this unseen land will be charted and I will set foot there. There will be a name. And celebration. Oh, yes!

   

Tiger Lillies...

Touch a silky floral creature and you risk being pricked, bitten, pecked, growled at, or licked. Imagine this tiny, furry or reptilian beast tugging flower petals around itself, trying on greenery, snapping at the others, or roaring fragrantly like the Tiger Lily does when provoked. Which of these deserves to spring from the patrician rose stem, with its history of bloody elegance? The Mousecup doesn’t. Expect tears from those whose leaves dry out before the blossom, and some bud will likely embarrass itself by popping out from a weedy nettle stalk.

a rare sighting of the Roosterbag

Staghorn, Frogwart! What hostess will let you bring that arrangement inside? There’s always the danger that the animal might overpowers the flower. Let’s say a dragonwing grows a second wing, a body, large jaws, and yanks out the roots to make a tail.

Dandylion

Call the Dandylion. (Mention diversity.) Plant the giant, mythically strange Roosterbag in your yard. Plant two or three! Many avoid the lovely, flowering Dogwood tree that barks at anyone pushing a stroller, while Dogtooth Violets just whine and snap at your legs. Foxgloves usually flower cleanly,without incident.

foxglove

 The Cock’scomb is often grafitti’d by adolescent boys, while the Cat’s Claw bush outside a party can catch and tear a girl’s dress.

 For rank geezerhood, try the Goat’s Beard, yellowing like aging teeth. In those tabloid moments, observe the Lambs Ear and Pussywillow in strapless evening gowns and stiletto heels, made up lambs and kitties as small as your thumb, each decorated with red, white and pink petals, and smelling like cherry chapstick.

I’m in a cabin, somewhere down off 23 South, in North West Arkansas, no phone, wifi or interference from the outer world. Tall forest everywhere! To touch in with the outside world or announce The Sound Journal (the brand new on-line version Kyra and I put together  thesoundjournal.org), I drive a few miles to the Carnegie library in the nearest town, Eureka Springs. California is as a dizzy flight or two away, like Oz was from Kansas. I know I’m a city girl when this place seems way more exotic than Marrakech, Morocco. How about this Palace Hotel sign on the old 1901 brothel?

 And take those two upside-down armadillos we drove past this morning – well, drove past one, then spun around to take his or her photo, there in the right lane. Wendy TC, my gracious host, was telling me what they do to gardens when they are among the living. There is a frantic kind of digging for what they need, insects and worms – like when you can’t find your keys or glasses and you might miss a flight if you don’t go right now. An armadillo can be described as a cross between a big-tailed vole and a raccoon wearing a tortoise shell back-pack.

 We went to a barn party a couple of nights ago, thrown by a giant puppeteer – the puppets are giant, the man, George, is just tall. His enormous puppets are mounted on the walls; gravel covers the floor. We were celebrating Barbara’s birthday. Most were wearing tie-dye and the food was good. I never met Barbara, but joined in the large circle, singing happy birthday. I liked the outhouse there. The sound system opened with Jimmy Hendricks’ Purple Haze. We were of the age where some of us had actually heard Jimmy Hendricks play, like at Winterland in 1968.

But the real reason I am here is to write poetry with uninterrupted happiness for hours. I’ve got a small kitchen, AC, and my best writer friend, Wendy TC is in the next cabin. I’ll be going to the library to post this. Now, back to my last version of my new poem, “Just Who Do You Think You Are?”  Where was I?

one of the many chicken trucks on the highway...

Ready for a few words from Walt….

at the barn party...

“I have perceiv’d that to be with those that I like is enough,/ To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough,/ To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, laughing flesh is enough,/ To pass among them, or touch anyone, or rest my arm ever so lightly around his neck or her neck for a moment – what is this then?/ I do not ask any more delight – I swim in it as in a sea….”

Walt Whitman, excerpt, I Sing The Body Electric 4.

As magical as Morocco seemed in the last two posts, it is beginning to feel like those home movies you get your friends to watch when they come over, and some of your good friends have seen them before….  So it’s time to go from the “royals” to the frogs. 

I bet you didn’t know about the Frog Walls in East Germany near Berlin. This cannot be common knowledge. The Germans seem so level headed and practical. Their country is a grown-up place, compared to adolescent america.  Nothing prepared me for those 10″ walls along the road on the edge of the forest. Not the 10′ walls that divided Berlin – No. These are the famous walls to keep the local frogs from jumping in front of cars, or crossing the road at a bad time; or simply hanging out on that smooth black surface. I made R.R.Rahima stop the car so I could take a picture at tire level.  So now the question of motivation arises. Is it a kind of clean-freak thing — no squished frogs, flattened outlines to disturb motorists? Or is it animal (reptile) protection, environmental carefulness? Was there a swarm of frogs in this area, Communist frogs that have been hiding in the woods for a few decades? Or did an eccentric naturalist just come up with this idea and make it into a crusade? “Save the frogs along here!” (I missed taking a photo of the caution sign with a red exclamation mark and a frog.)

I googled to see what they have with “Germany” and “Frog Wall” and I found Frog Pond Life Prepasted Wall Boarder, in stock for

$8.99.

So where am I going with this? I’m not about to kiss a frog wall to see if it turns into a castle with a prince but I can show Lady GaGa who appeared on German Television last week wearing a green coat made up of dozens of Kermit-the-frogs. Here she is! it makes me wonder about those frog walls… Did Lady GaGa see the frog walls and become inspired with reptilian fashion possibilities? Or is she merely trolling for her own hoped-for Royal Moment?

May all frogs be well and happy.

I’m in the Moroccan desert city of Marrakech, as people from all over arrive. We await the large Sufi Conference sponsored and paid for (airfare, accommodations and meals) by the Royals of Morocco. Sufism in Maroc is a hedge against fundalmentalism, promoting tolerance, inclusiveness and goodwill. It is a mystical tradition, the fragrance from the flower of belief.

We are in a 5 star hotel, and I write from a lobby with fountains and inlaid marble floors. Internet access is patchy, and I sent a few letters from the far corner of the balcony on the 5th floor which overlooks Marrakech, standing in the hot wind in the cooler afternoon, now that the temperature is under 100 degrees. Of course there is airconditioning. I had lunch with my friend Hamza who lives here with his family. Nine years ago he rode on camels with me in the Sahara.

Why am I here? I’ve been invited to read my poetry – from my forthcoming book – at the conference. There are many men, but few women here. It is amazing that anyone could just up and come here with ten days notice. We were in England teaching when we received the formal invitation. So it was easier. Then we were asked on the phone to bring teachers from the Chisti Ruhaniat Sufi Tarika. Cinda Basira and Tansen from England will be joining us Thursday,and Rahima from Germany arrived with us from Berlin. We had breakfast with the Nigerian Tarika. Every few hours more people arrive. I have no idea what will happen. Our good friend Ahamed  – Jonthan Granoff –  just arrived.       Stay tuned. Hu!

Thursday morning, July 9th….

Last night a van drove us to a part of Marrakech I don’t remember at all. At 9 PM we were led through a small, very old keyhole arch down narrow lanes on a soft dirt path. Ancient doors with beautiful detailing appeared in the gray walls on the left and right. Cats. The beginnings of cool air. Then lanterns and a carpet, an open door. Voila! A palace? A restaurant? The ceiling was 4 stories high by American standards, exquisite carved wood. zelige (intricate tile design) walls and white, diaphamous, curtains. We sat at round tables and counted the plates to see how many courses we would eat. A Moroccan ensemble of 12 or so musicians began to play. Bubbley water or plain? Conversation. Prayers before dinner. The Niger / Mali Africans arrived with wonderful headdresses and sat at the next table. We copied them and ate with our hands. They seem like kings. There were maybe eighty of us by this time. More arriving all the time.

Then the olives and eggplant and delicious small dishes, the targe tagine with the meat and apricots, another tagine with chicken, vegetables and couscous. And finally…. fruit.

It was midnight. Ahamed and Pir Granoff wanted to see the square the “square” the Djemaa el Fanaa with the tall  Koutoubia Mosque. I can’t upload any photos, but it was like noon on Saturday in the US. People and bikes and motorbikes were everywhere. Berber boys line-dancing to hand drums. Henna artists, and much to Pir’s delight – piles of cooked snail shells with their occupants steaming in butter.

Today the conference attendees are treated toa visit to the Zawia of Tamslot outside Marrakech. Time for lunch with Khalifa from Nigeria and Shabda. I may not be writing such detailed information now that the conference gets underway. Hu, Hu.

The German Summerschool has wonderful translators. I was lucky to have Fatima Be from Zurich, who brought the stories and poems to life in a seamless way. This is the afternoon class I gave for a week, covering the lives and stories of the 7th century women in the household of Prophet Muhammad.

Safiyya’s Sturz

As-salaamu alaykum, rufen sie

und laufen neben dem Kamel her,

Staedter, seine Familie, ausgehungert nach Muhammads

Heimkehr aus der Schlacht! Als sein Kamel strauchelt,

gleitet die Frau aus dem Umhang des Propheten….

Safiyya’s Fall

They run alongside the camel, hungry

for Muhammad home from the rout;

townspeople, his family all shouting,

as-salaamu alaykum! When his animal stumbles,

the woman rolls out of the Prophet’s mantle….

 During the week of the Summerschool, Natalia sat with the 12 or so Russian speakers and translated all the English into Russian for the classes. She is married to Murshid Saadi and lives in Edinburgh. The number of languages was impressive, as were the variety of countries represented. Prem and Sally were the farthest… New Zealand. Tanzilla is a Bosnian Cultural Muslim.. Gulsina, from Perm, Russia, is a history professor at the university there, in the Urals.

With Summerschool over, we are in the beautiful East German countryside outside Berlin. Nesting storks in the village. We are staying with Rahmana-Rahima in an old parish house next to a cathedral that dates from the beginning of the eighteen hundreds.

It has an immense garden full of apple trees and  fruiting cherries that opens into the fields. 

Shabda and I are preparing to go to Berlin tomorrow and Marrakech, Morocco on Tuesday, where I’ll present poetry at a large Sufi Conference next weekend.

Germany is beautiful, sunsets are after 10:30 PM, and the language still mystifies me!

Proizka Muehle, Germany near Hamburg, deep in the countryside; the birdsongs are dazzling here. Strong and symphonic. The trees are more serious looking than those in the South of England, a darker green and muscular, in order to hold the multitudes of winged singers, the heavy sky.

More than one hundred people are gathered here at the Sufi Summerschool; from Germany, Switzerland, France, Holland, Estonia, Latvia, UK, Poland, New Zealand, Russia, and California. In two hours I’ll teach with a translator, named Fatima, from Zurich. Ten poems have been translated into German for discussion in both languages. I don’t know German and have never been here before, but these poems from Married to Muhammad  have a life of their own– not often the line between two points.

Roethke writes: I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words… In poetry there are no casual readers.

Songbirds and poppies. Twilight until 11 PM.

Greetings from Germany.