While heavy on processed drums, the disc makes for compelling listening. The young women, products of China’s top orchestras, perform with ancient instruments such as the gu zheng (a zither with up to 25 strings), pipa (four-stringed lute) and dizi (bamboo flute).
We’re here to gather evidence, to find The DNA—or at least to lift the finger- prints of Deity. A treasure hunt With clues craftily concealed, but there Nevertheless. If clouds drifting dreamily Across the moon’s congested face won’t do, Or waves that threaten passion in the Higher sense, beyond a Category Five, make you shrug, consider numbers, Counting to infinity. Boot up Your Apple, and see how many zeroes it Can prophesy. Click a remote: note How mice, unwired, can still point To sites unmentioned in the manual. Divide three into ten, and claim eternity.
“It did what I wanted it to do,” said my sister of the carefully composed little book of old family photographs she’d arranged with sheer vellum slips between the pages, “so they could see through to the old faces, maybe circle them, write things, mostly gather round close and remember because the book is small.” Their knees would almost have to touch.
Going down the list: after against among around, I think how trivial they are, how low their self-esteem, how like safety pins they merely connect. Prepositions are the paid help we’re not allowed to talk to, the maids in black uniforms who pass hors d’oeuvres at parties. Or rather, if we could laugh together, they would be the forbidden joy leaping like sparks between us. Who can survive without connection? All winter, green waits for the sun to wake it from its nap and so we say sunlight lies on the grass. Even the simplest jar connects—jar under moonlight, on counter, jar in water. Imagine prepositions in the Valley of Dry Bones stitching the femur to the heel, the heel to the foot bone. And afterwards, they got up to dance. Between, beside, within may yet keep the chins and breasts from tumbling off Picasso’s women. If I could, I would make prepositions the stars of a book, like the luminary traveling the navy sky the night sweet Jesus lay in his cradle, pulling the nameless, devious kings toward Bethlehem, and us behind them,
Here’s my question. What if there was a poem That didn’t know what it was about until it got To the end of itself? So that the poet’s job isn’t To play with imagery and cadence and metrical Toys in order to make a point, but rather to just Keep going in order to find out that the poem is About how hard it is to watch your kids get hurt By things they can’t manage and you cannot fix. If I had been the boss of this poem I would have Made it so they can manage things, or I could be The quiet fixer I always wanted to be as a father; But that’s not what the poem wanted to be about, It turns out. This poem is just like your daughter: No one knows what’s going to happen, and there Will be pain, and you can’t fix everything, and it Hurts to watch, and you are terrified even as you Try to stay calm and cool and pretend to manage. Some poems you can leave when they thrash too Much but kids are not those sorts of poems. They Have to keep writing themselves, and it turns out You are not allowed to edit. You’re not in charge At all—a major bummer. I guess there’s a lesson Here about literature, about how you have to sing Without knowing the score . . . something like that. All you can do is sing wildly and hope it’ll finish So joyous and refreshing that you gape with awe.
Islamic Sufis are outraged by a sultry ad for the perfume Just Cavalli. The ad features a scantily clothed Georgia May Jagger, daughter of Mick Jagger, and includes a logo that the Sufis claim is based on a centuries-old symbol of the Arabic word for Allah that represents peace and harmony. Sufis have demonstrated in American and European cities against the Italian design house marketing the perfume. The European Union’s trademark authority has refused a request from the Sufis to have the logo removed (Reuters).