James E. Allman, Jr. | Hopeless, Poet.

Time 2021-06-03 13:12:23

Web Name: James E. Allman, Jr. | Hopeless, Poet.

WebSite: http://jameseallmanjr.wordpress.com

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Allman,James,Jr,

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A loaded word, but just aword. In simpler times and terms, more about which directionone faced. Facing correctly,specifically, eastward—ororiented—the east, or the Orient. Reorientedfrom our contemporary perspective: neither right norleft, our east or west, but upward or northward on the mappae mundi.Orientem, oriens—the rising sun, the part ofthe sky also where the sun rises every morning. Up, as if to implyover our heads, and slips behind us in the evening time.How literal and silly cartographers wereback then. Silly as toddlers. As a toddler boy who asksa simple question: “When my eyes get bigger and bigger, willI see the whole. World.”And his mother and father not knowing what he means,supposing: See itas it is. As topsy-turvy, turned upon its head, like those old mapsperhaps, which look remarkably as though they’d been drawnby toddlers’ hands: Their dependence on such thick lines.2.Thick black lines, but no longitude or latitude. Though we give thema lot of latitude for being so simple-minded, such old men,to think that the world was flat or carried once on a turtle’s back—our houses being houdahs, our Oriental carpets spun ofmagic flax—or a cosmogonic egg,cracked, poached, over easy or sunny-side up. Made to order. “Order up.”Silly as Quetzalcoatl or Pangu—moving heaven and earth for youwhile walking on eggshells—calculatingHubble’s constant, constantly counting it out onfingers and toes and expanding the poles of thisspheroid cosmos, according to oneancient Chinese legend, like the ends of a breakingegg separating—as a Big Bang, and as arcane.3.Or just plain arcane. Ancient,archaic. Archaeo-, meaning olden orfrom the beginning, like a rising up, oriri, to rise, or *ergh,similarly, raise or set in motion or stir.Stirring, too, a beginning: And styrian,*sturjanan, storan—to scatter or destroy—as much anend as it is a beginning. As a storm isalso its own refreshment. Or the snake’s consumption ofself is at the same moment a regurgitation of itself:The Ouroboros, an ancient symbol. Or how the latest found fact of archeologyis simultaneously eschatology:the last writing being alsothe first writing, as in Alpha and Omega. Which iswhy the aboriginal—ab origine, from the beginning,originalis, origo—ever facedthe east, in the first place. In the firstplace, which in the last place is why we find ourselves so disoriented. Turningbigger and bigger telescopes: And so many suns in the sky.First published in issue 41.1, Fall/Winter 2014, of Black Warrior Review. This poem received a 2014 Pushcart Prize nomination. The other day, while riding in the car, the boys started arguing about a species of cannibalistic starfish. They didn t argue over its existence. Nor over its nature. But over its name. One saying it was a sunfish. The other a sunstar. It nearly came to blows as each convinced of themselves expressed their certainty through raised voices and insistent language—both wishing to rescue each other from bad thinking. Only my intervention prevented violence from erupting. Continue reading You are the salt of the earth. But if the salt loses its saltiness it is no longer good for anything, except to be thrown out and trampled underfoot.—Jesus, from the sermon “Salt and Light” (Matthew 5:13-16)From PIE *sal-, where we get the word for ‘soldier’—sal dare, ‘to give salt to’, orearn one’s salt, which is how they were paid in those days—ifPliny the Elder is to be believed.And they are plentiful, now, and everywhere. And they salt the earthwith their boot-soles—soldiers sent to the four corners. As if a commonmisinterpretation of Jesus’ words occurred—chieftains andheads of state taking seriously a godly burden to season everythingsufficiently. And the soldiers, before ever they will bebeaten into ploughshares eons from now, dig their swords in and turnthem—sowing fields with their salinity. Singing:We are the salt and the light and we do not salt lightly. Salty assailors we are, we are the salt sent away to givethe sea its brine. We are pillars of salt on sortie assailing what is not Kosher withteaspoons. We draw lines. We hold them.We have many followers. We are turned loose afield and no field is left fallowof us. Which is the hal- of it. Salt, or sea-salt. Or the ceaselessness ofsea. As in the sea will always have its own way—its waybeing halcyon. Of the sea—or of itself—even if tempestuous. And a cruel mistress.The surf—the incessantlapping of its salt-lick against the sand. The sand—a thinline of peeling scab tended by seaweed salves and hermit crabsand beach goers. Gawking with beach towels. And beach chairs andtrowels and beach umbrellas. Resting on beachedasses. Their crucifixes buriedin chest hairs. Deep as beach grasses. And maybe they re languishingwith picnic baskets, copper mules of sweet tea, and a dashof salt in their chocolate chip cookies. Like the gentrified gathered on the lawnin their Sunday s bestto watch the First Battle of Bull Run. Or that stretchof sand might be Thermopylae. All that stands between. The Devil and the deep blue sea.First published in the Spring 2018 issue of Relief. My son this morning came up the stairs in tears. He was distraught over some pain he was feeling. Afraid that it was something calamitous. That might require medical attention and all the discomfort of it. Perhaps it will. Time will tell. But what he needed in the moment was to be heard. Not comforted but heard. His fears acknowledged. His pain too. Not written off or given to some sentimentally spiritual aphorism. Or that phrase which is just impoverished optimism, “It’ll be OK”. He needed to know that I identified with him in his fear and pain. Continue reading In Rilke’s masterpiece, Sonnets to Orpheus, he writes:…take your heavinessand give it back to the earth’s own weight;the mountains are heavy, the oceans are heavy.Even the trees you planted as childrenhave long grown too heavy; you could not bear them.Which is reminiscent of Paul: “We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth Not only so, but we ourselves…groan inwardly…” (Romans 8:22 23) On the way back home from our last farewell with Granddad I was heavy. Heavy with him weakened and dying, heavy already feeling the loss. What a loss not to be able to hear him one last time. Upon arriving home another loss: a simple conversation. One easily, up until then, taken for granted. Spoken liturgically between us: We re safe, Granddad. Yeah, we made record time. Yep, we got 34 mpg. Rilke goes on a few short sonnets later: Continue reading Old English treo, treow, from Proto-Germanic *treuwaz-, from PIE *deru-Being ‘firm’ and ‘solid’. And ‘steadfast’. Being alsobigger than life. And ageless, like a god,whose shoulders are exceedingly broadand good for heaving. Or stands defiant on a mountain top,upholding, some say the world, orthe heavens, lugged like luggage upon its back.Moreover, good for ornamental purposes, as in a garden.Or The Garden: good for knowledgeof all kinds, but specifically of good and evil.Or tucked away in the middle silence of a wood, writing inconcentric circles of rings ringing rings aroundthe first day of its stillness—the perfect silentcenter of its singularity, which in timewill encompass the forest, stretch forever beyondthe reach of the woodsman’s axe.§Spreading its tendrils. Its roots like*deru-, the deepest root, which brings ustreu, ‘truth’. The Bodhi tree.The Dryads. Or Daphne disappearing.No one remembers.The ancient, hardwood forestsharvested of theirold-growth gods. Or the signsof their autumn. Yellow leaves,ochre with golden edges for flames.Or any signs at all. Or the scrawlof words into sidewalks,or onto stone tablets. Or carved bynaked druidesses into the trunks of trees.We need the lumber. We’re told. We needthe room—this standof trees stands in the way.Imagine the empty gladeuncluttered without itstyrannical choking canopies.And the allottedtall fescue plots. We mustlevel and grade,irrigate, seed and over-seed, pluckthe dandelions out,mow and bag the clippings.§Seedlings upon seedlings of trees that mockthe mower, mock the lawn care expert—march ever onwardlike the march of forager antscarrying more seeds on their backs—seeking to put downroots. Seeking a grain oftruth to swallow. Once the ancient Mayan cities wereswallowed up because someone stoppedmowing the lawn—stopped listeningto Kukulkan. Who was fond of saying:Rev up those mowers, boys. Kick up the din. There’s alwaysanother forest on the way. Saplings to be kept at bay.Teeming, true as: *treuwaz-. Can’t see the forest for—the Silence.First published in issue No. 18, Spring 2017, of Waccamaw. From Gk. tragos, “goat” + oide, “song”Like melodious goats: or Leporello listing off a cavalcadeof conquests, or masquerading asDon Giovanni. Donning goatskins—like Brünnhilde—breastplates, and Viking caps—sipping from wineskins, singing in highest keysof kinfolk, of forefathers, lesser gods, and our own gloriousdeeds abroad.And the all-caps and shift-keys forrunes of warning. And the emojis for Venetian masks.And the straw-fields for straw-men avatars. And also, for erectionof straw houses meant to ward off big-bad things.And we have no regrets—forgetfulas we are of our fears—eating our sandwiches over keyboards like‘Earls of Card Games’—of Rivers, of Flops. We growextra-long mutton chops.We wear monocles and other affectations. We huff and puff andno one calls our bluff.Like school girls or boys we sing: who’s afraid of—who’s afraid of—And no one will say:they areafraid. Of a wolf in sheep’s clothing.Or a faun. Or say a satyr with a golden fleece on. But the goldis a satire and the Minotaur isdaddy issues. No one wants to give upthe goat. And how we get each other’sgoats. Say: I love you—but. Oy vey,oide. Meaning: ‘what the hell, you goat’. And the Azazel beingthe devil’s goat. A neckline—something to tie our loose nooses from,smack squarely on the ass and watch run away as fast asfalsetto sirens.The Sirens aren’t goats, after all, but like goats they’ll devourwhat’s put in front of them. A steamer ship full of butterscotch candies ora full grown man. I heard of a goat once who could wolf downtin cans—adding a bit oftintinnabulation and synesthesia to the tincture of itsbleating songs—the color, now, of Semillon—sweet, and rotted with botrytis.First published in issue No. 18, Spring 2017, of Waccamaw.—Denise Levertov, Mass for the Day of St. Thomas DidymusFrom the Old French redoutable, from redouter(to dread), from re- (again), douter (to doubt, fear). Anacknowledgment, a coming to terms with,what’s unknown is terrible.St. Thomas, no doubt, terrible for his doubts,called Didymus, called Doubting Thomas, the terribleDidymus, with sight and blind with sight. What is he to you, now—you, who grope your way about this woundedworld. Your doubt is not exceptional—your doubt is commonplace.Such is terror,our terror, each day’s terror, almost a form of boredom, like a doglicking its wounds, with its tongue raspingthe gape and gouge—the world, whole world, a wound—the woundwith saliva and lysozyme, with spittle and thrombospondin. With spittle,starting with the eyes, with mud and spittle in the eye and a man saying, “Goand wash yourself. And see.” Or stick your finger inside and workit around a bit. Or hesitate, dubitare, waverbetween two things, two premises like a dilemma—we live in terror ofwhat we know, we live in terror of what we do not know.Duo-, duwo-, tweon, twin—and Thomas meaning twin and Didymus, too,be of two minds in the matter. Two, yes, dubiousminds and one in disbelief. While the others waga finger and say, “Keep your hands to yourself, why don’t you, Thomas, and ifyou do not mind.” Wiggle not thy finger in, and do, or do not, believe in.Blessed is he who believes. Blessed is he who is ableto nibble fish. To bear the thrust of our hands, and the repeatedthrust of our unbelief. Or a finger in the fissure. Or the plunge of an armto its elbow, in and out. Who is ableto be doubted, himself, redoubtable, then, as now, again and again.First published in issue 8.2, Spring 2016, of Relief. A handing down. To usfrom Latin trans-, over (or across or beyond), and dare, to give.Also, to surrenderthrough traditus, traditio and traditionem. Down, say the Via Appia, orthe Appian Way, over the Alps and later by way ofFrench townships. Whose townspeople would say:tradicion. Which becomes a word of interest out of its antiquity,its lengthy history as adoppelganger for treason, a handing over.Which is handed down andover the same Latin way—road, route, or Latin roots—exceptvia an unexpected twist taken by the French: traison.The French being so persnickety and peculiar that way. BeingGauls and ghoulish and having the gall, being also somewhat foolish,to distinguish between up and down, or over and under, or over anddown in this way, as if down the road there isn’t also over the hill. Isn’t alsoour own doubts? And how many we aren’t yet over. As ifit is always one or the other and not firsthanded over before it is handed down to usto doubt. RememberRahab. Who for her part is always called the harlot.Letting down those spies from herJericho high rise. Down a length of rope,never mind the length (the length being irrelevant):and each one hand over hand.Too, letting down her townsfolk. Handing them overto the Israelites. Even thosewho had admired and kissed her thighs. OrJudas, called Iscariot, whose betrayal was a kiss.Whose betrayal was long foretold. Some say decreed,a handing down through time.But woe to that man who betrays: for he is often found at the endof his rope. And betray being betrair—be-, thoroughly, completely,or surrounded on all sides and given over and over and from hand to handacross all time. Which isjust down the road, being itself the end of the road.And so many of us on this road withoutso much as a rope: trair, traitor, tradere. And trado, traditio, and sonot so far beyond“to surrender to.” A handing over of selfto another self, whom himself is handed down andhanded over.First published July 21, 2016 The Curator. The country will look like pine and oak forest with every tree cut down—every tree a stump, a huge field of stumps. But there’s a holy seed in those stumps.— Isaiah 6:131. Middle English stumpe; Old German stumphThere’s something to the fact it traces its lineage backthrough Saxon and not Normandialect. As if there’s only room for stump in aconquered tongue. Such a hard stopto it. Like—earh, arwe—an arrow, its sharp point,through an eye. Or something cut off. Dramaticlike an ear. Or hand. Or tongue.They say it was the country poor,the curt, who preservedsuch stunted words, as these—words as ‘body,’ bewd, and‘blood,’ bloud. But also ‘trampled’ on. Presumablyto name and sing their oppression. See stamp.2. Old English stempan; Old German stampfenTo extinguish a fire by stomping on it—call it stamping:impressing an unfamiliar countenance on yourcountenance—who stammers—stammr,stamaron—to rememberitself ever more timorously as the axe hammer falls.Where nothing stands except those standing onstumps stamping to stop the murmurs. Or embers.Do you remember. Once you burned inside—stood erect in a thicket of light, immeasurable asmirrors turned on mirrors. See step.3. PIE *stebh-In grammar school there was a boy named Rex—a poor soul who stuttered every second syllable.All of his efforts to talk like a line of tall trees cut down,dotting his horizon. Even so, he struggled tostep over them. And we struggled to let him—some of ustook pity, helped him finishhis sentences. We told ourselves it was to end hisbouts of misery. To end our own, we laughed—and laughed—hysterically when he would tripover a word. Day after day, he took those same hardstops—imperturbably(imagine him saying that word)—now as then, stepping into his agony, never once biting his tongue.First published in issue 8.2, Spring 2016, of Relief. It’s a bit like a teeter, son, with nototter, but more of what we are talking about here, a stretchingbetween two sides. Ridiculous,I’m sure, but let’s pretend, as in prætendere, to stretch forth, or præ- as in before the stretch, which, inour case, could be with a stick around a spent fire pit, or on a shortwalk around the block, just the two of us—teneo, tenere, tenui, tentus, the same root which brings to ussoft/tender, as well as to hold/to take. Andwhat’s more appropriate to father and son than to takeyou in my arms to hold you, to take your tenderframe, tendere, to stretch it?We might call this growing up, kid, but you’ll probably come to know it betterthrough its Proto-Indo-European as reig- where comes riag andrack—a form of torture, admittedly of a kind which involvesstretching—a reach. Or a stretch.For now, let’s say it’s only your eyes that needlengthening. “Look at the sky.” Lift up your eyes at what’s passingby—bye and bye—in a pressurizedcabin and reckon, ræcan. Lift your eyes like airfoils.It’s as good as metaphysics to you,as the distinction between Dasein and ousiaand all that matters. The dozen acorns you stuff your pocketswith, or a collection of cicada skins. The branches piled and sorted in ared, rusted wagon. Squirrels, and the sprint ofsquirrels. Toadstools, earthworms, unearthed ants.And if ants, a chance to squat and watch them throngtheir eggs, marveling at the ones with wings so far underground.Why won’t you reachor, at least, rake the remnant ashes of last night’s fire intomountain peaks—tightrope the ridge of their spine, then traverse the thinning atmosphere all the way to the pocked cheek of the moon? Instead,when you settle—making mounds, tents,hovels—pronounce rather insistently, “It’s for the meerkats.” Orgroundhogs. Or some other animalwhich burrows. Odd,I know, how you always totter down, never stretching your wings—unaware ofwings. Ridiculoushow I reminisce, teetering again on thisseesaw, see-saw—on this ci-ça—thinly veiled,as this, or that.First published in issue 10, Winter, of Sundog Lit. Privacy Cookies: This site uses cookies. By continuing to use this website, you agree to their use. To find out more, including how to control cookies, see here: Cookie Policy

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