Cibola 3

This entry is part 3 of 119 in the series Cibola

 

I’m serializing my book-length poem. See Section 1 for details.

Beginnings (cont’d)

I awake in the dark and shake free
of sheets & blankets, of down-filled
quilt. The rituals of waking–
the long, hot shower, the coffee–give
my mind the chance to keep drifting,
let memory make what it will
of the contours of sleep.
Oddest of all are the dreams in which
one awakes, forgetting all rituals.
And it seems normal to go out naked,
for instance, in the middle of winter.
The snow’s alive, remember?
It ripples, blue flames slip
through the trees like fish.
I feel fur sprouting all along my spine.

Compulsive blessings and the silence beyond words: quotes from Ivan Illich

The libertarian website LewRockwell.com has a nice retrospective on Ivan Illich – well worth reading for anyone unfamiliar with his ideas. Illich is one of my favorite thinkers. Whether or not you agree with all his positions – and I certainly don’t – I think there’s no denying he is one the most consistently challenging social philosophers of the second half of the 20th century.

Reading this retrospective, which included the first quote below, prompted me to dig out my own copy of Illich’s 1969 classic, Celebration of Awareness. Here’s a brief garland of quotes from two of the most striking essays included in that work.

From “Violence: A Mirror for Americans“:

“The compulsion to do good is an innate American trait. Only North Americans seem to believe that they always should, may, and actually can choose somebody with whom to share their blessings. Ultimately this attitude leads to bombing people into the acceptance of gifts.”

“Eight years ago I told the late Bishop Manuel Larrain, the president of the Conference of Latin American Bishops, that I was prepared if necessary to stop the coming of missionaries to Latin America. His answer still rings in my ears: ‘They may be useless to us in Latin America, but they are the only North Americans whom we will have an opportunity to educate. We owe them that much.'”

Illich foresaw something like the rise of radical Islamist ideology way back in 1968:

“I submit that foreign gods (ideals, idols, ideologies, persuasions, values) are more offensive to the ‘poor’ than the military or economic power of the foreigner. It is more irritating to feel seduced to the consumption of over-priced sugar-water called Coca-Cola than to submit helplessly to doing the same job an American does, only at half the pay. It angers a person more to hear a priest preach cleanliness, thrift, resistance to socialism, or obedience to unjust authority, than to accept military rule. If I read present trends correctly, and I am confident I do, during the next few years violence will break out mostly against symbols of foreign ideas and the attempt to sell these. And I fear that this violence, which is fundamentally a healthy though angry and turbulent rejection of alienating symbols, will be exploited and harden into hatred and crime.”

Yes, and be used by anti-Western governments to solidify power, as in Libya under Qaddafi, Iran under the Ayatollahs, or Afghanistan under the Taliban.

From “The Eloquence of Silence“:

“The science of linguistics has brought into view new horizons in the understanding of human communications. An objective study of the ways in which meanings are transmitted has shown that much more is relayed from one man to another through and in silence than in words. Words and sentences are composed of silences more meaningful than the sounds. The pregnant pauses between sounds and utterances become luminous points in an incredible void: as electrons in the atom, as planets in the solar system. Language is as a cord of silence with sounds the knots – as nodes in a Peruvian quipu, in which the empty spaces speak….

“To learn a language in a human and mature way, therefore, is to accept the responsibility for its silences and for its sounds. The gift a people gives us in teaching us their language is more a gift of the rhythm, the mode, and the subtleties of its system of silences than of its system of sounds. It is an intimate gift for which we are accountable to the people who have entrusted us with their tongue. A language of which I know only the words and not the pauses is a continuous offense. It is as the caricature of a photographic negative….

“It takes more time and effort and delicacy to learn the silence of a people than to learn its sounds. Some people have a special gift for this. Perhaps this explains why some missioners, notwithstanding their efforts, never come to speak properly, to communicate delicately through silences. Although they ‘speak with the accents of natives’ they remain forever thousands of miles away.”

This is from a talk Illich gave to prospective missionaries learning Spanish, Catholic priests who wanted to work among the then-newly arrived Puerto Ricans in New York City. Illich goes on to classify linguistic silences into three, broad categories: “the silence of the pure listener”; “the silence of syntony,” of waiting for the right words or Word; and “the silence beyond words,” which is equally “the silence of heaven or of hell,” of love or despair.

“There is still another silence beyond words, the silence of the Pietí . It is not a silence of death but a silence of the mystery of death. It is not the silence of active acceptance of the will of God out of which the Fiat is born nor the silence of manly acceptance of Gethsemane in which obedience has its roots. The silence you as missioners seek to acquire in this Spanish course is the silence beyond bewilderment and questions; it is a silence beyond the possibility of an answer, or even reference to a word which preceded. It is the mysterious silence through which the Lord could descend into the silence of hell, the acceptance without frustration of a life, useless and wasted on Judas, a silence of freely willed powerlessness through which the world was saved. Born to redeem the world, Mary’s Son had died at the hands of His people, abandoned by His friends and betrayed by Judas whom he loved but could not save – silent contemplation of the culminating paradox of the Incarnation which was useless for the redemption of at least one personal friend. The opening of the soul to this ultimate silence of the Pietí  is the culmination of the slow maturing of the three previous forms of missionary silence.”

I admit I don’t read nearly as much Christian theology as I should. So perhaps I shouldn’t be as struck as I am by the insight in these last lines, that Jesus’ greatest source of agony was the loss of Judas. (Was this mentioned in The Passion of the Christ?) It seems somewhat at variance with Augustine’s contention that the greatest source of pleasure for the saved in heaven will be to look down on the eternal torments of the damned. It reminds me instead of a line from a poem by Elie Wiesel: “The Silence of God is God.”

For more Illich quotes, scroll down to the end of the aforementioned retrospective. Naturally, the author selects quotes favorable to a conservative libertarian point-of-view. But a lengthy list of links to other online articles by and about Ivan Illich is provided, as well.

Cibola 2

This entry is part 2 of 119 in the series Cibola

 

Re-cast in the second person, and slightly expanded, following an e-mailed suggestion from a reader who evidently took what I said yesterday about the Reader’s pivotal role seriously (as well she should). Thanks, Suzanne!

Beginnings

This thing called a fetish embodies
what can never be touched.
Its odd contours–all lump & twist
& rag-end–are best kept out of view.
To see it exposed, you must assume
the burden of its origins, you must
give up some part of what makes you
you. Who now would choose
such displacement? It lives
in a buried season, carboniferous.
It is the solid shadow
we abandoned in the womb.

Cibola 2 (old)

I’m serializing my book-length poem. See yesterday’s post for details.

Beginnings

This thing called a fetish embodies
what can never be touched.
Its odd contours–all lump & twist
& rag-end–are best kept out of view.
To see it exposed, one must assume
the burden of its origins, one must
remake oneself. It lives
in a buried season, carboniferous.
It is the solid shadow
we abandoned in the womb.

To be continued.
__________

Beginnings. In lieu of a prose introduction. The longest single section of the poem.

This thing called a fetish. No Freudianism, please! In anthropological circles, the term “fetish” has acquired a distinctly un-p.c. aura; terms like “icon,” or the more general “power object,” are generally preferred. What I had in mind was something halfway between a Malian cult object and the personal mi’le of a Zuni priest or medicine society member. In either case, a distinctly aniconic ideal holds sway.

For additional commentary, here and throughout, I think I’ll use the comments (appropriately enough).

Falconiform

At ease, lieutenant.

Thank you, sir.

I understand you’ve been able to keep all the runways free of pigeons for the last week with just two birds.

Yes, sir.

How is that possible? Do they really kill that many pigeons?

No, sir. They haven’t killed more than half a dozen. What happens is that the regular presence of a hawk or falcon completely traumatizes a local prey population. They either lie low, only venturing a few feet from cover, or they move somewhere else entirely.

Kind of a shock and awe thing, then?

Yes, sir. (To incoming falcon) Here we go. Good boy! (Falcon lands on glove. The falconer deftly secures the leather straps around its feet and slips a hood over its head.)

What – what’s the hood for?

Oh, it just keeps them tractable, sir. They’re very high-strung. The very thing that makes them such effective killing machines – that single-minded intensity – makes them less than ideal pets, I’m afraid.

Not something I’d want my five-year-old to play with, eh?

No, sir!

Now, what species is this one here? Is this a peregrine?

Its daddy was a peregrine, yes sir. But it’s a hybrid: its mother was a merlin.

How is that possible? Artificial insemination?

Yes, sir.

They must be quite valuable, then.

Yes, sir. I wouldn’t be able to afford them if I didn’t breed them myself.

Oh, really? Do you mind my asking how you do that? I mean, I grew up in cow country, I know how they do it with bulls…

(Chuckles.) Well, sir, it’s a little different, I think. I have a special hat that I wear…

Shaped like a female falcon, I suppose?

Well, no, sir, that isn’t necessary. I use the same hat for all my birds – everything from kestrels to red-tail hawks. See, the kind of visual cues they respond to are more motion-oriented, just like they won’t go for a pigeon unless they see it fluttering or walking around.

So you put on this special hat and you, um…

I initiate courtship, sir. (Chuckles.) I do exactly what a sexually receptive female of their own species would do: about five minutes of head and torso bobbing, like this, then…

(Incredulously) They mistake you for a female falcon? I thought these birds were considered highly intelligent!

They have just enough brains to do what nature designed them to do, sir. Find the target. (Continues miming falcon courtship display.)

Thank you, that’s enough, lieutenant.

Yes, sir.

Carry on, then.

Yes, sir. (Salutes, keeping left arm horizontal. Falcon swivels its hooded head and clicks its beak.)

Cibola 1

This entry is part 1 of 119 in the series Cibola

 

Today begins a new, daily feature on Via Negativa: the serialization of my book-length poem, Cibola. I have divided it into bite-sized sections, 157 120 of them in all. At six posts per week, it should take at least 29 weeks to present the whole book here. I expect to introduce many minor and perhaps a few major editorial changes as I go along; thus, I have removed the PDF file from my other website.

Briefly, Cibola is a psychological/anthropological drama based on historical events: the “discovery” in 1539 of an apparent Shangri-La somewhere in the mountains of present-day New Mexico by the Franciscan friar Marcos de Niza and the “black conquistador” Esteban, originally from Morocco and probably of Sahelian parentage and culture. Esteban had served as the main interpreter to the Indians for the four survivors of the disastrous expedition of Panfilo de Narvaez to “La Florida,” memorialized by Cabeza de Vaca in his justly famous account – the first truly great work of Euro-American literature. The Marcos-Esteban expedition was a hastily assembled affair sponsored by the viceroy of New Spain, designed to scout out a route for the real conquest, one year later, led by Coronado. Further details about Marcos and Esteban will be provided in notes as the poem unfolds.

Cibola represents about a year and a half of research and writing, ending in May, 2003. I’m not entirely satisfied with the result (though obviously I do feel it has plenty of solid insights and good language, or I wouldn’t be inflicting it on y’all). One of the main problems may be that it’s too dense: its language is closer to lyric poetry than to the lighter, easier flow of narrative verse. So I’m interested in seeing whether a division into shorter segments, spaced out over seven or eight months, doesn’t make it more enjoyable to read.

As always, I welcome any and all critical reactions, via comments or e-mail (bontasaurus, yahoo). Please let me know especially when more explication is needed; I’d like to keep notes to a minimum, but I don’t want lack of comprehension to interfere with appreciation. Although I’ve tried to adhere fairly closely to historical, geographical and anthropological realities as I understood them, my perspective has remained artistic and populist, not scholarly.

Writing this book turned out to be an intensely rewarding and educational experience. When I placed the outsiders’ descriptions of Indians side-by-side with what has been recorded from their own rich and at times psychedelic oral traditions, oddly enough, the Native words generally seemed much truer to life. However, given that modern ethnographies are a very imperfect guide to how people might have lived and thought 500 years ago, I allowed myself a great deal of artistic license in the retelling of certain myths and oral histories, not to mention in imagining what the people who first told them might have been like. And for details of the Marcos-Esteban descubrimiento, to say that the historical record is unclear would be a vast understatement.

One way I tried to keep the critical apparatus to a bare minimum was through the inclusion of passages from other texts, in 21 “Reader” sections preceding every section of original poetry. I think of these as the warp upon which the weft of the work is strung. Too, they place the reader of the poem (in which category I include myself) on a footing with the three, main protagonists: Esteban, Marcos, and the native community of Shiwanna, direct ancestor of modern Zuni pueblo. In most cases, the quotes in a “Reader” section are meant to introduce themes immediately upcoming. The inaugural portion, however, is more like a brief for the poem as a whole.

Reader (1)

Though a person find no gold,
Though he find no silver,
Should he find his freedom,
Then noble will he be.
A man of power is hard to find.
FA-DIGI SISOKO
The Epic of Son-Jara (John William Johnson translation)

Your desire, my friend, has been fulfilled.
You have come, you stand upon my land.
Look around and see how poor it is.
It is filled with sickness,
It is littered with potsherds,
It is strewn with cuttings of hair.
The roads of my country are old,
And the houses of my country are about to fall.
My mountains are old and crumbling.
My streams are covered with accumulations.
WILLIAM BLACKWATER
“Welcome to the Aaduma [Eda Mel] Ceremony” (traditional Akimel O’odham
speech/sermon, translated by Ruth Benedict)

It may be that when we no longer know what to do we have come to our real
work and that when we no longer know which way to go we have begun our
real journey. The mind that is not baffled is not employed. The impeded stream
is the one that sings.
WENDELL BERRY
“Poetry & Marriage”

Hi, cue

Sharon of Watermark is soliciting New Year’s haiku for one of her multi-partner poem dances. I stopped by to drop a link to the preceding entry in the comment box, but then, right on cue, felt the urge to drop something more appropriately syllabled. This be it.

To what shall I liken
this New Year’s, warm and brown?
It happens, that’s all.

Not a haiku

This was my New Year’s Day poem for 2000. (Remember Y2K?)

snow fog at dawn
the wingbeats of a maybe crow
fade into the would-be distance