Mind as Deer Leaping

(photograph "Deer Leaping" by George Shiras, National Geographic, July 1906)

Understand subjective delusions: the illusion of regression; equally false: the illusion of progress. The news that makes one happy is the news that makes another sad. Neither understands the news. My eyeballs feel slightly deflated, I doubt they are--- maybe they are. Or one is. Just a feeling, I guess. “I guess” is right, I mean, not correct but properly recognized (in the most general sense possible). There we have it, my borrowed philosophy. Basically “Fleeting.” Fleetingly told. Needs an "-ism.” And something 'bout love and compassion. O! Buddha.

Two Poems by Sassoon on Rememberance Day

Survivors

by Siegfried Sassoon

No doubt they'll soon get well; the shock and strain

Have caused their stammering, disconnected talk.

Of course they're "longing to go out again,"--

These boys with old, scared faces, learning to walk,

They'll soon forget their haunted nights; their cowed

Subjection to the ghosts of friends who died,--

Their dreams that drip with murder; and they'll be proud

Of glorious war that shatter'd all their pride ...

Men who went out to battle, grim and glad;

Children, with eyes that hate you, broken and mad.

(Craiglockart, October 1917.)

---

The Rear-guard

by Siegfried Sassoon

Groping along the tunnel, step by step,

He winked his prying torch with patching glare

From side to side, and sniffed the unwholesome air.

Tins, boxes, bottles, shapes too vague to know,

A mirror smashed, the mattress from a bed;

And he, exploring fifty feet below

The rosy gloom of battle overhead.

Tripping, he grabbed the wall; saw some one lie

Humped at his feet, half-hidden by a rug,

And stooped to give the sleeper's arm a tug.

"I'm looking for headquarters." No reply.

"God blast your neck!" (For days he'd had no sleep.)

"Get up and guide me through this stinking place."

Savage, he kicked a soft, unanswering heap,

And flashed his beam across the livid face

Terribly glaring up, whose eyes yet wore

Agony dying hard ten days before;

And fists of fingers clutched a blackening wound.

Alone he staggered on until he found

Dawn's ghost that filtered down a shafted stair

To the dazed, muttering creatures underground

Who hear the boom of shells in muffled sound.

At last, with sweat of horror in his hair,

He climbed through darkness to the twilight air,

Unloading hell behind him step by step.

(Hindenburg Line, April 1917.)

Poetry Of Departures

by Philip Larkin

Sometimes you hear, fifth-hand,

As epitaph:

He chucked up everything

And just cleared off,

And always the voice will sound

Certain you approve

This audacious, purifying,

Elemental move.

And they are right, I think.

We all hate home

And having to be there:

I detest my room,

It's specially-chosen junk,

The good books, the good bed,

And my life, in perfect order:

So to hear it said

He walked out on the whole crowd

Leaves me flushed and stirred,

Like Then she undid her dress

Or Take that you bastard;

Surely I can, if he did?

And that helps me to stay

Sober and industrious.

But I'd go today,

Yes, swagger the nut-strewn roads,

Crouch in the fo'c'sle

Stubbly with goodness, if

It weren't so artificial,

Such a deliberate step backwards

To create an object:

Books; china; a life

Reprehensibly perfect.

Leonard Cohen at The Isle of Wight Festival 1970

Story goes that the 'Isle of Wight Festival' was supposed to be an English music fest in 1970 for 100000 paying concert goers. Instead 600000 people attended, 500000 of'em crashers --- so, rather quickly, the scene turned chaotic. On the last night of the tumultuous festival, after Jimmie Hendrix performed and a part of the stage was burned down. A dowdy looking Cohen took the stage at 2:00am wearing an overcoat and some dirty jeans over his pj's. The video above is an excerpt from the concert.

Even though, I must admit, his voice and performance aren't really the strongest here and the transition from mayhem to peace isn't obvious, I like to imagine that the kindness of his artistry; the essential genius of Cohen, radiated outward towards the audience and doused their flames, drew them in, captured them entirely... Really Love this guy.