African Iris

Congaree River, Near Columbia

Elmwood Cemetery

LUNCH IN ELMWOOD CEMETARY

We, an indiscriminate crowd, welcome you to lunch,
Impotent shadows of the past, not tortured in a Greek Hell,
But in the common grave of mankind, the abode of the dead,
Where the bad and the good, the slave and the master,
The pious and the wicked who share this life
Obediently follow the sunless chemistry of our bodies
To cure among stones according to some cosmic purpose
A great, indefatigable cohesion, an undiscovered Law
Awareness so useful we dare to call it Knowledge
An ignorance so vast we can safely call it God.

Imagine us in our young flesh without scars
Hoping someone vain and reckless will notice
Longing for gratification above the ground, an embrace,
A wound of passion in the earth that exhales our dust
A chance to rise above the sound of motion as reliable as the tides
Where the wise and foolish labor with equal skill to ignore us
Until they open the earth to bury or remove something.

There is no better way to make a man miserable
Than to convince him he should always be happy
Life is trial and error, a search for something that works,
A collection of scars and the stories that go with them
The happiest among us learn to laugh about them
Then leave one last scar on those who love us most
You shall know them by their tears and laughter.

For those who suffered in life, death is joy
For those who loved and were loved, death is sorrow
For those who had nothing, death is a world they already know
For those who had everything, death is a final and sumptuous act of charity
A command to let it all go and get out of the way
Our grave is just another act of creation
A vestige of our beginning, no prospect of the end.

Turbulence, Two

AN UNCERTAIN MOTION

An uncertain motion begins things,
Like smoke rising up from a fire
The turbulent air of summers and springs
Setting bounds on unstable desire.

Turbulence, One

"In infinite time, in infinite matter, in infinite space, is formed a bubble-organism, and that bubble lasts a while and bursts, and that bubble is Me.

This was the ultimate belief on which all the systems elaborated by human thought in almost all their ramifications rested. It was the prevalent conviction, and of all other explanations Levin had unconsciously, not knowing when or how, chosen it, as anyway the clearest, and made it his own.

But it was not merely a falsehood, it was the cruel jeer of some wicked power, some evil, hateful power, to whom one could not submit.

He must escape from this power. And the means of escape every man had in his own hands. He had but to cut short this dependence on evil. And there was one means — death.

And Levin, a happy father and husband, in perfect health, was several times so near suicide that he hid the cord that he might not be tempted to hang himself, and was afraid to go out with his gun for fear of shooting himself.

But Levin did not shoot himself, and did not hang himself; he went on living."

Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina (1873 - 1877)

A Gift Stolen from the Gods

Whale Branch, Coosaw River

Stinking Creek