the oblong pilgrim

There apparently is a universe.   At least we have long been assuming this—for we are likely somewhat in it or within it.   It seems to be everywhere.

Nothingness has no place; location itself has no meaning; movement, as a concept, is unclear–stillness even less.

And then there is gravity–but where is it?

Thus comes along the being-for-itself, the being-in-itself of Sartre—as a result very few trolleys exist now-a-days.

Hermit– an attempt to overcome the definition of  ‘human.’

Existence as a lowly intervention into a vast aether-sea of apparent nothingness.  Thus arrives the pathetic doings of the life-form– the tiniest coming of a gigantic absurdity.

Imagination as that wonderful opening unto unknown worlds?   Rather, imagination as that which is ultimately limited by the (Foucault) episteme.

There is no difference between life and non-life.

Beliefs of man surely kill more beings than his ignorance—though his ignorance is astounding and has led to endless varieties of  doughnuts.

Dust as a warning.  Dust as confusion resolved.  Dust as a prelude… to nothing.

a trinity of terror–in their wars of greed and domination–
the hideous international mass killers–bush-obama-cheney–
aiding the most extreme, reactionary latin american governments
here as they attempt to exterminate progressive social rebellions.

in the sixties–thought we could change the world–stop the wars–
save the planet–decades later–now learning–maybe can’t even
save one little girl–when does one grab a rifle and go up
in-the-green-mountains–learn from the flower:

DANDELION

joyful little glow
bright yellow fury
valiant spot-ling
on the meadow
deeply toothed
basal rosette
dangerous coming
as tyrants trample
for what sort
dent de lion
would choose playmates
within the grasslands
never trembling
spectacle under-foot
and yet resuming
spreading the flames
flower of wonderment
and subversive weed
were i so
O rebel in-the-green

frank parmer snider
+

+

+
.

barn owl asleep on a high beam
the buttercups and the crickets
undiscovered springs in the earth
coyote, the mischief-maker
life hidden in an old stone wall
now wonder and wander away
henceforth and so forever more
for thus i carve you a mystery
drifting with the sadness of life
sorrows of the long unnumbered
a puzzle of these planet things

the simple longing and dying
of sweet life-forms so innocent
of creatures that you and i love
a dozen wildcats that leave us
a thousand insects that taunt us
whispering breezes of summer
and groundhog holes by the garden
the deep greenness of the forest
oh, such primeval forms of joy

the rocky creek tumbling so steep
next to the overgrown orchard
and moss by the water so sweet
a praying mantis in the grass
the geese circling over the pond
the green frogs and the long black snakes
yellow jackets and honey bees
may apples along the old lane
near the civilization tree
a possum clings to a sapling
its eyes seem so strange in the night
and right by our pond at the dam
a hidden crevasse in the roots
of a leaning ancient birch tree
where we used to hide our treasures
of bluebells and four-leaf clovers
a lifetime of high adventures
playing in that bright little creek
contentment in the pure coldness
salamanders between our toes
the orioles and bluebirds
wild turkeys by the old harp tree
and the indian arrowhead
that we found in a cow pasture
the sagging wooden barnyard fence
the outhouse and low chicken coop
and high above the waterfalls
the ruins of a limestone kiln

wide fence rows and old cattle paths
the cattails near springs by the swamp
where two spotted fawns thrilled us all
a block of salt always under
the bent-over mulberry tree
for white-tailed deer by the dozens
half-tamed skunk near hole at the shed
the old corncrib and the hayloft
cherry trees in youthful white dress
hummingbirds over the violets
dancing with an airy frenzy
and the graveyard by the old church
carefully hiding our lost friends

a kitten peeks around the porch
where bats hide under the rafters
as wooden shingles tumble down
and straight across the rough high lawn
where the monarch butterflies float
a platform in the apple tree
where we slept through a starlit night
and beyond the thousands of trees
way off so far in the distance
the faintest long-haunted murmur
of a sleepy county village
that life-forms would be brave and true
that love of the woods should prevail
these are the yearnings of the earth

the wildest joys of a midnight
solitary walk to the cave
as a fierce hunting bobcat screams
in the gloom and upsetting fog
what remote ancestor of ours
once howled in that dark narrow hole
what near-human form raged at death
where the huge boulders of the cliff
carve strange depressions in the soil
we respect our mystical hills
for we are lovers of the woods
we’ll never betray the green earth

the soft winds of april beckon
and animals are on the prowl
a weasel chases a rabbit
down lilac lane into the swamp
while over toward hexenkopf rock
a most lonely passing black bear
is sleeping on a side-long hill
the birthday trail along the ridge
and down below in the hollow
a meadow-tuft where two brooks meet
with a rock jumble guarding all
and the snake trail that we once made
whenever we’d climb the old hill
then a hundred hilltops we’d see
thickets of wineberry bushes
the apple trees, pear, peach, and quince
may leaves, one thousand shades of green
the skunk cabbage and trout lilies
wild strawberry picking in spring
oh the love of these smiling hills
soft music of the woods and streams
the serene mood of our landscape
and the wildness lingering on

the chipmunks would play at our feet
as we’d swing on sturdy grapevines
turtles laid eggs on the south slope
gray squirrels dined in the cornfields
the tree frogs would chirp in april
and field mice that lived on our porch
the maple trees, willows, and beech
old sycamores and the poplars
for that endless green sea of trees
once stretched to the ends of the earth
blossoms and branches of whitman
the ghoul-haunted woodlands of poe
deep deep woods of raggedy ann

at twilight in the upper field
on a flat rock i once waited
for whatever would come to pass
a red-tailed hawk signaled from high
a movement close by in the earth
and a fox walked straight up to me
as our eyes met in the dim light
a mist floated up from the woods
and thoughts of the fox echoed ’round
nearby on branches crows gathered
oak trees leaned over to listen
could the green live on in the end
would the forest come back again
in my heart i felt that it could
then dream now with few vexations
for the light is fading away

that room in the unpainted barn
bantam chickens perched in a row
by day a raccoon slept near there
a dusty white horse lives below
that old collie dog’s still barking
right under the first walnut tree
how we love the charms of these woods
we’ll never forget our sweet hills
at night-time i stroll down the lane
and wonder then how i’m so poor
my one shirt is torn at the sleeves
really have nothing to read now
but moonlight on tulip tree leaves
the farmers have all gone away
and the dogwoods fill in the fields
with cedars as their companions

frank parmer snider

+

+

which reminds me of the fabled olivier faxxx, a frenchman who walked and hitchhiked from paris to india in 1965. total expenses–one dollar a week on average. in those days the hospitality in the islamic countries was wonderful. i made about half that trip with olivier. we were especially well received in syria where i learned of palestinian longings for the first time. had to feel a zionist bullet still deep in the leg of one old man.

at nighttime we would sleep by the road, or behind a bush to avoid the cattle trails. olivier had a sleeping bag while i just put my jacket over me. in the mornings he would wipe the side of his hand across a patch of grass and wash his face with the dew.

from haunted woodlands
to the banks of the howrah
mystical murmurs
at the surface of the unintelligible

in calcutta we had an english friend who walked about bare-foot with a large black umbrella. always wore a red t-shirt; had no luggage whatsoever. he ate virtually nothing but bananas, and the even cheaper blackened bananas would you realize. third-class steam trains–nobody bothered to buy a ticket.

then so, and somewhat later than forthwith, i decided to rent a small room near the howrah river bridge where we had been sleeping with the cows and other beggars. on two sides the walls were made of cardboard and stopped at about three feet below the ceiling (the marvelous ceiling which was made up of old egg cartons). an hour or so on, after having killed twenty fleas, i observed a fishing pole with line and hook entering my abode over the soggy cardboard. the hook headed toward my pants which then rose up til i cut the line with a large knife i always carried. i crashed through the cardboard wall but nobody was in the cubby there.

in the morning i noticed the englishman and olivier washing clothes at the shady side of a lowly puddle. near them a sikh was cleaning his false teeth in the muddy water. at the other side three beggars were fighting while a fourth took a leak in the middle of the puddle.

what rambling fever of a young siddhartha
what half-contorted dream
could prod the wanderer to enter
the various passing planes of a calcutta
a crust is asked amid the sneers
where the proud parade their vanities
yet then a vagrant, homeless entity
slow drifting in a non-existing nothingness

“if this planet has a history, the history is india.” wonderful  kolkata–one of the world’s great cultural centers–with its fabulous mixture of tibetan, parsi, chinese, tamil, and marwari.

*
*
*
*
*
*
*
*
waxtu nelaw mooy fu ma gemmeentu jot-e

ONCE WALKED
FROM MOPTI IN MALI
TO THE BORDER
WITH SENEGAL
CARRYING
A ROSIN BAG
*
messages recieved:

*
*
*
*
*  I was reading about Africa as my wife has left me.  I m in a wheelchair now but that s not why she left.  I too am a baseball fan. Bernard Grxxxx Union City, Ohio     How can we get in contact?

*
*
*
*
*

by a hut in the oaxaca mountains
from a certain irregular mystic
to a small gathering of zapotec elders
the following message:

***note the semi-bizarre influence-mixture of
the T. gospel, Rimbaud, and Lao Tzu–
(frank parmer snider)

Once there was a rich man who said to himself, ” I will sow and plant and reap. And fill my barns with fruit that I may have need of nothing.” These were the thoughts in his heart. And in that night he died. He that hath ears let him hear. (fr. Thomas gospel)

There has arisen among the myriad entities a forlorn yet wondous particle. But nothing abounds for death is nothing. Yet that rich man died.

Impossible it is that there is absolute location, likewise there is no difference between stillness and motion; no difference between life and non-life; no difference between something and nothing. And there is no death. Yet that man died. Do you sense the danger?

Mitla (including the mystical mountains there-with) is not a country; it is not a subcontinent. Mitla is much more. The edges of the hills fold up into the aether where one looks sideways at the moon, where one can glimpse that blue crystal pool of water by the Mitla San Pablo church.

Mystical turquoise vowels cleanse my being: “O bleu… l Omega rayon violet de Ses Yeux!” A. R.

Water seeks the lowest place where no one would want to go. Water asks for nothing. Rather it gives life to the multitudes. Come closer to this crystal stillness. Sit at the edge. Water gives all–it will never die. Grab hold of that quiet blueness. I am crying now. Can you hear me? Sorrow and beauty overwhelm my being! Slide under that Mitla-soft-blueness. Slip under the water pool. Weaker than the weak. Lower than the low. Beneath the pure stillness you live! Now look up! Maybe that’s the sky!

I wandered through cow pastures along a broken down fence up into the wooded hills of Appalachia. Had found an abandoned farmhouse and was living there. That was in 1954 and I must have been thirteen. Halfway along in a field a fox was eating on a live groundhog. Down in the burrow I could hear the other groundhog crying. Strange, scary mine holes near a logging trail. Hawks and white-tailed deer everywhere. Mystical, curved waterfalls,

August moon so pale
raccoons deep in the hollow
tumble little creek

Then again and shortly thereafter Anhak stopped by to check on the dog, Heavyhead. The old civil war barn was home to many animals in those days–a horse, chickens, possums, and even a wildcat. Anhak slept in the hayloft. She was seventy then, my age now. Had crossed through the Wabash on a wagon train. Oxen took her into the prairie where she helped break through the sod for the first time ever. That was in the 1880s.

Annie (that’s what we called her) wanted to travel with me to Cartagena and Bogota and, if possible, into the Amazon. We put our bags on the gelding, Dusty and slowly walked out of the hollow to the dirt road. Made it to Idlewild and onto a prop plane bound for Cartagena.

Forty years later I made it into the Putumayo y Cacueta. Narrowly missed getting shot in the head. The boy next to me in the cart took a bullet in the left eye. They probably thought he was my son. Several times knives were held at my stomach and throat. But I’ll get to that soon enough– sleeping in the streets of Calcutta; hitchhiking from Paris to Baghdad and back; Norway to Portugal; North Africa, Senegal, Mali, Gambia; hitching from New York to Costa Rica; the man-eating leopard on a hill near Kathmandu; six years in Guatemala; five years in Japan; Hong Kong, Thailand, and Pakistan.

Still above ground and still on the trail . Now wandering about a magical, mountain kingdom, a medieval, oriental entity. A place of beauty, a place of weeping. Of revolution and betrayal. A land between Mexico and Guatemala. Chinantec, Mazatec, Zapotec, and Mixe. Will be leaving tomorrow for caves discovered near Teotitlan del Valle.

So then, from where the moon now shimmers, by the 16th century cathedral, at a sidewalk cafe sits the irregular pilgrim. And the town swings about. The people swirl around. The uncouth one assumes a quietness amidst the lower levels. Thus the low becomes the elegant. It’s all in the slope of the letters. Let it unfold. We miss you Annie. Maybe I’ll be seeing you soon,
Oblong