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| refuge___wanderer’s_cairn.m4a |
| little_bones._better.m4a |
Listen to three poems (Refuge, Wanderer's Cairn, Little Bones) from a new collection to ring in Peace in the New Year
Refuge
When there were no more words,
no echo to be heard,
and stillness became unbreakable,
the trail brush around me stirred
and a wet spotted fawn appeared
in a tangle of Sweet Everlasting
bleat bleating the sound
for hunger and mother--
one and the same.
Lost when she is gone,
bleating to be found.
When words failed,
a cry came--
the end a beginning again.
--Angela von der Lippe
Wanderer’s Cairn
On the first pebble beach at dawn,
In that Ur-stone, no micro trace
of movement to the sun,
No brain to create
No eye to behold.
Still though, the possibility of us
in that primordial bowl
of swirling cosmic dust --
unproven spirit of all we would become
through eons of endless trying.
*
On pebble beach at dawn
There is a standing stone
of speckled granite
atop hearting of veined quartz
holding pointe
on a sea-green ancient outcrop.
--The head to lift the body to the sky.
--The heart to fill the void,
to break the fall.
--The earth to hold the gravity
of our little lives.
And then an explosion
within that lifeless stone.
A cry
Outlandish and bold
--The word to be the soul.
To usher us in, to name our cares and sorrow,
To engrave voice into the hollow
--Angela von der Lippe
Little bones (for Polina)
1.
The girl with the pink hair
and a fistful of purple stones
holds a golden starfish
tightly in the palm of her hand.
Lips pursed in a shy smile--
No, she won’t tell.
The girl with the pink hair
has eyes that light
an amber dance.
Wishes not yet spoken.
Secrets never told.
No voice but a crepitus pop-
gun cry of shattered bone
cradled in a dying mother’s moan.
2.
The painter from Bucha padlocks
his ink tattoo and piercing parlor,
leaves his studio
to rummage through mass graves,
attaching numbers to bodies.
He has a tremor and calls out
to the silent rows of corpses
“All the hands—there are so many.
See these hands,” he holds up his own,
as if foreign objects,
shakes them off violently
and throws them down
into the rubble.
Fields of hands wave through his night.
He will not go back.
He cannot paint the pain.
Too many to list, he chokes,
and then the little bones,
to number
(priceless as a heartbeat)
so maybe they find the mother.
‘I used to make them beautiful.
No more.’
3.
The dead philosopher--
the one with the name
that means gifted and adorned--
once opined from exile:
‘To write a poem after Auschwitz
is barbaric’. The fugitive
from the death camps
becomes a prisoner
of survival. His words
an idle delusion.
The poet who knew better
pulled a boy
From a bombed-out building
and sending him on his way
exclaimed:
‘Never again, never again…
At least not right away.’
Years later
a prisoner of the state
remembered that boy in the rubble
and wrote a poem.
4.
From laptops
we witness the killing
in real time.
In the palm of a hand,
we count the dead
we dare not touch.
We play wargames
to predict the best escape,
forgetting collateral newborns.
Hands on hospital windows,
Blood-soaked backpacks.
Grenades of conscience.
Justice is an out-of-body experience.
Too many,
far too many are dying,
to claim the remains
of just one.
But love waits, quiet and nuclear.
Long after the bodies decompose
it still finds its way to a heartbeat.
Somewhere in the lines of a poem
is the voice of a feeling.
A soul in search of a girl,
a painter, a philosopher, a poet,
a patient and reader.
Little bones in search of a name.
A mother looking for a starfish.
--Angela von der Lippe
*Polina. The first child victim of the invasion of Ukraine to be identified. Feb. 2022
*Philosopher. Theodor Adorno
*E. German Poet. Gunter Kunert
*starfish. a symbol of infinite divine love, also in the Christian tradition alludes to the Virgin Mary, Stella Maris (star of the sea).
Refuge
When there were no more words,
no echo to be heard,
and stillness became unbreakable,
the trail brush around me stirred
and a wet spotted fawn appeared
in a tangle of Sweet Everlasting
bleat bleating the sound
for hunger and mother--
one and the same.
Lost when she is gone,
bleating to be found.
When words failed,
a cry came--
the end a beginning again.
--Angela von der Lippe
Wanderer’s Cairn
On the first pebble beach at dawn,
In that Ur-stone, no micro trace
of movement to the sun,
No brain to create
No eye to behold.
Still though, the possibility of us
in that primordial bowl
of swirling cosmic dust --
unproven spirit of all we would become
through eons of endless trying.
*
On pebble beach at dawn
There is a standing stone
of speckled granite
atop hearting of veined quartz
holding pointe
on a sea-green ancient outcrop.
--The head to lift the body to the sky.
--The heart to fill the void,
to break the fall.
--The earth to hold the gravity
of our little lives.
And then an explosion
within that lifeless stone.
A cry
Outlandish and bold
--The word to be the soul.
To usher us in, to name our cares and sorrow,
To engrave voice into the hollow
--Angela von der Lippe
Little bones (for Polina)
1.
The girl with the pink hair
and a fistful of purple stones
holds a golden starfish
tightly in the palm of her hand.
Lips pursed in a shy smile--
No, she won’t tell.
The girl with the pink hair
has eyes that light
an amber dance.
Wishes not yet spoken.
Secrets never told.
No voice but a crepitus pop-
gun cry of shattered bone
cradled in a dying mother’s moan.
2.
The painter from Bucha padlocks
his ink tattoo and piercing parlor,
leaves his studio
to rummage through mass graves,
attaching numbers to bodies.
He has a tremor and calls out
to the silent rows of corpses
“All the hands—there are so many.
See these hands,” he holds up his own,
as if foreign objects,
shakes them off violently
and throws them down
into the rubble.
Fields of hands wave through his night.
He will not go back.
He cannot paint the pain.
Too many to list, he chokes,
and then the little bones,
to number
(priceless as a heartbeat)
so maybe they find the mother.
‘I used to make them beautiful.
No more.’
3.
The dead philosopher--
the one with the name
that means gifted and adorned--
once opined from exile:
‘To write a poem after Auschwitz
is barbaric’. The fugitive
from the death camps
becomes a prisoner
of survival. His words
an idle delusion.
The poet who knew better
pulled a boy
From a bombed-out building
and sending him on his way
exclaimed:
‘Never again, never again…
At least not right away.’
Years later
a prisoner of the state
remembered that boy in the rubble
and wrote a poem.
4.
From laptops
we witness the killing
in real time.
In the palm of a hand,
we count the dead
we dare not touch.
We play wargames
to predict the best escape,
forgetting collateral newborns.
Hands on hospital windows,
Blood-soaked backpacks.
Grenades of conscience.
Justice is an out-of-body experience.
Too many,
far too many are dying,
to claim the remains
of just one.
But love waits, quiet and nuclear.
Long after the bodies decompose
it still finds its way to a heartbeat.
Somewhere in the lines of a poem
is the voice of a feeling.
A soul in search of a girl,
a painter, a philosopher, a poet,
a patient and reader.
Little bones in search of a name.
A mother looking for a starfish.
--Angela von der Lippe
*Polina. The first child victim of the invasion of Ukraine to be identified. Feb. 2022
*Philosopher. Theodor Adorno
*E. German Poet. Gunter Kunert
*starfish. a symbol of infinite divine love, also in the Christian tradition alludes to the Virgin Mary, Stella Maris (star of the sea).
The Original Darwin the Dog
Wednesday, April 19, 1882
Fatal attack at 12.
3 ½ . . .
--E.D.[Emma Darwin]
***
A Dog’s Life
In the agony of death a dog has been known to caress his master …
{Chapter III. Comparison of the mental powers of man and the lower animals.
In the agony of death a dog has been known to caress his master, and every one has heard of the dog suffering under vivisection, who licked the hand of the operator; this man, unless the operation was fully justified by an increase of our knowledge, or unless he had a heart of stone, must have felt remorse to the last hour of his life.}
—Charles Darwin, The Descent of Man
Words cannot begin to express the loss of this great wire- haired white bushy animal. An eagle-eyed observer. A keen hunter. Lost to the world for today and tomorrow. And that’s not me I’m barking about, but my master, Dr. Charles, who never had much to say to us, submissive as he was, he loved collecting those words, as much as his bugs and his barnacles, lining them up just so, sometimes bounding up, paws flailing, speaking them aloud (while I lay curled in a tufted basket before a fiery hearth) and taking one turn around the study before collapsing back into his sagging leather chair on wheels that he rolled up to his desk where he scratched at his books some more, leaving a long long trail of tracks for all who could read his scrawl. Those words would lead any seeker right to where you could find him.
But, I didn’t need to. I was always by his side. I was the constant day and night companion to the squire of Down House. (Underfoot by day and yanked by the mistress off his bed at night). I answer to Polly. He called me that, “Oh, my good, good girl Polly” he’d say. A small white fox terrier with black button nose and pleading eyes, I jumped to his every command from the terrible day I got there to the terrible day when he was gone.
You see, we critters are not so much the seeing but the sniffing kind, and when I first came to Down my litter of puppies was taken away from me. I lay down and when I opened my eyes, the devil herself was sitting on my belly holding me down (drowned they were, though that hag never owned up, but there my little pups were still in their sacs like stuffed wet socks) and I went wild, wild, oh so whining wild. Spinning like a whirling dervish. Dis-POSSESSED, I had nothing to lick. To lick down, the mine that moments before was me.
Dr. Charles, quiet as he was, somehow had an instinct for my trouble and gave me his hands and his face to lick for hours on end until I could lick no more, snuggling into his chest where I simply sat and got comfort from that strong heart of his, til our beats were one, and I finally closed my eyes again and fell into a long sleep. This was bonding.
So he was a hunter as you all know, and a seer into the dog condition, as only I can tell you, but he was a lot more. He was nothing if not methodical. His kind have things called clocks. I heard them gonging all the time in Down House, reminding everyone to fall in line, not to stray off, but who needed clocks with Dr. Charles making his way around the oblong gravel Sandwalk morning, noon and sometimes evenings too. It comforted him and it thrilled me to hear the tick tock of his iron-shod walking stick as he made his way around the walk, every now and then pausing to push his tiny nose into the head of a flower. He wanted to have what we have and if ever there were a man who deserved our superior snout, it was Dr. Charles.
When he wasn’t stooped over looking under duff or turning over stones for worms, he was arching his back and shading his eyes, scanning the sky, pointing in wonder at the high-flying tumblers, and the double-crested Baldheads and then making his way to the pigeon loft at the end of the Sandwalk to listen to the low cooing of the males and the trumpeters laughing, and to count the new little wispy squabs and take his measurements of the various Rockdoves in the aviary. He said that keeping pigeons in coops had to be the world’s most boring hobby but you’d never guess it to see his face light up at the yawning beak of a peeper.
His walks would lead us sometimes beyond the brick walls of the Sandwalk, out into the wild ‘Big-Woods’ of the Orchis bank, where one day I so spooked a squirrel that my bark sent him scurrying up Dr. Charles’ leg clear onto his back, while he stood still as a statue, with the mother screaming bloody murder from a beech bough. He seemed to know our ways or want to, and that made him able to creep up very very close. His prowling about was always to look and never to pounce.
Sometimes he seemed more comfortable with us than with them. He was always letting me out on the verandah or in through the drawing room window, cheering me on to bark with an ear scratching whisper ‘those naughty, naughty people.’ He was tender and playful, egging me on, and when I was scolded by one of the naughty people, he commanded me to be “a good little girl, now sit still” and then producing a small biscuit from his pocket he’d place it on the top of my nose, urging me to stay and then he’d wink and I caught it and we both jumped for joy and I’d stand at attention for more. Sometimes out of the blue he patted the funny patch of red hair on my back, that had grown in red after a burn and say with special fondness ‘Oh, Polly, you’re your father’s girl, you are.’ Though I don’t know who else’s I’d be, and never knew him, and Dr. Charles was bald up top, but something about that red tuft of hair delighted him and made me feel special. So who would quibble with that?
Whether I came from wolves or jackals and how my kind found their way from the wild to the trash heaps to the hearths of man doesn’t much matter to me. We did. But it does to them, because you see, they think they came from us… Well, it’s a long twisting story with lots of dead ends, but one of their word trails from people of long ago gives it away, saying: ‘the dog is what we would be, if we weren’t what we are.’ * So if I sniff it right, they think they lost something.
Being of the here and now, my paws firmly rooted in this earth and not yesterday or tomorrow, my nose was always at his feet. So when he took to his bed, with fever, coughing and crying out, and his hands now cold and clammy and his breath smelling sour, there was a stinking rot about him and I sensed his body becoming stiff and still like the earth. The play skittered right out of him, like a rogue breeze escaping to fresh air. There was no more going out, no whistle, no tick-tock of his stick, no tasting the salt of his hand.
I began to ache and slink away from a body whose life was leaving him as he cried to stay. With me! I held my breath, swallowed my cry, and the lump in my throat began to swell. A muffled whimper was all I could do.
Oh, they made fun of Dr. Charles, the naughty people did, for being sappy about dogs, for claiming we could return affection. [But the loving tickle of my belly or the taste of his tears returned in kind is something of the nature only he and I knew.] Dr. Charles once caught me barking at a parasol that was idly lolling in the wind on the lawn and he likened that to people’s belief in spirits. But that last day when I padded in to find him lying in the arms of our mistress, the wind blew the curtain twisting to be let out into the afternoon sunshine… and I jumped and with all the wolf in me let go a longing howl to follow. But he didn’t respond. Not even a lick and a promise. They latched the window and drew the drapes and his time stopped. The wind had swept him away as if there were no tomorrow …leaving no scent, no trace, no heart to rest a weary head on.
The outside lost its color, its voice, its touch, its breath. The old dog had gone away. They took his body and placed it in a gonging church. They took mine and buried me in a sack under the Kentish Beauty apple tree in the orchard, which was forever bearing fruit. …It was as if we’d taken one last turn on the Sandwalk, and he’d skedaddled off the path, and lost track of time.
Polly
(born—unknown *** died—-one sundown after my master)
***
Thursday, April 20, 1882
Polly died.
All the sons arrived.
--E.D.
(Published in the Summer Issue of THE BARK, 2013)
Fatal attack at 12.
3 ½ . . .
--E.D.[Emma Darwin]
***
A Dog’s Life
In the agony of death a dog has been known to caress his master …
{Chapter III. Comparison of the mental powers of man and the lower animals.
In the agony of death a dog has been known to caress his master, and every one has heard of the dog suffering under vivisection, who licked the hand of the operator; this man, unless the operation was fully justified by an increase of our knowledge, or unless he had a heart of stone, must have felt remorse to the last hour of his life.}
—Charles Darwin, The Descent of Man
Words cannot begin to express the loss of this great wire- haired white bushy animal. An eagle-eyed observer. A keen hunter. Lost to the world for today and tomorrow. And that’s not me I’m barking about, but my master, Dr. Charles, who never had much to say to us, submissive as he was, he loved collecting those words, as much as his bugs and his barnacles, lining them up just so, sometimes bounding up, paws flailing, speaking them aloud (while I lay curled in a tufted basket before a fiery hearth) and taking one turn around the study before collapsing back into his sagging leather chair on wheels that he rolled up to his desk where he scratched at his books some more, leaving a long long trail of tracks for all who could read his scrawl. Those words would lead any seeker right to where you could find him.
But, I didn’t need to. I was always by his side. I was the constant day and night companion to the squire of Down House. (Underfoot by day and yanked by the mistress off his bed at night). I answer to Polly. He called me that, “Oh, my good, good girl Polly” he’d say. A small white fox terrier with black button nose and pleading eyes, I jumped to his every command from the terrible day I got there to the terrible day when he was gone.
You see, we critters are not so much the seeing but the sniffing kind, and when I first came to Down my litter of puppies was taken away from me. I lay down and when I opened my eyes, the devil herself was sitting on my belly holding me down (drowned they were, though that hag never owned up, but there my little pups were still in their sacs like stuffed wet socks) and I went wild, wild, oh so whining wild. Spinning like a whirling dervish. Dis-POSSESSED, I had nothing to lick. To lick down, the mine that moments before was me.
Dr. Charles, quiet as he was, somehow had an instinct for my trouble and gave me his hands and his face to lick for hours on end until I could lick no more, snuggling into his chest where I simply sat and got comfort from that strong heart of his, til our beats were one, and I finally closed my eyes again and fell into a long sleep. This was bonding.
So he was a hunter as you all know, and a seer into the dog condition, as only I can tell you, but he was a lot more. He was nothing if not methodical. His kind have things called clocks. I heard them gonging all the time in Down House, reminding everyone to fall in line, not to stray off, but who needed clocks with Dr. Charles making his way around the oblong gravel Sandwalk morning, noon and sometimes evenings too. It comforted him and it thrilled me to hear the tick tock of his iron-shod walking stick as he made his way around the walk, every now and then pausing to push his tiny nose into the head of a flower. He wanted to have what we have and if ever there were a man who deserved our superior snout, it was Dr. Charles.
When he wasn’t stooped over looking under duff or turning over stones for worms, he was arching his back and shading his eyes, scanning the sky, pointing in wonder at the high-flying tumblers, and the double-crested Baldheads and then making his way to the pigeon loft at the end of the Sandwalk to listen to the low cooing of the males and the trumpeters laughing, and to count the new little wispy squabs and take his measurements of the various Rockdoves in the aviary. He said that keeping pigeons in coops had to be the world’s most boring hobby but you’d never guess it to see his face light up at the yawning beak of a peeper.
His walks would lead us sometimes beyond the brick walls of the Sandwalk, out into the wild ‘Big-Woods’ of the Orchis bank, where one day I so spooked a squirrel that my bark sent him scurrying up Dr. Charles’ leg clear onto his back, while he stood still as a statue, with the mother screaming bloody murder from a beech bough. He seemed to know our ways or want to, and that made him able to creep up very very close. His prowling about was always to look and never to pounce.
Sometimes he seemed more comfortable with us than with them. He was always letting me out on the verandah or in through the drawing room window, cheering me on to bark with an ear scratching whisper ‘those naughty, naughty people.’ He was tender and playful, egging me on, and when I was scolded by one of the naughty people, he commanded me to be “a good little girl, now sit still” and then producing a small biscuit from his pocket he’d place it on the top of my nose, urging me to stay and then he’d wink and I caught it and we both jumped for joy and I’d stand at attention for more. Sometimes out of the blue he patted the funny patch of red hair on my back, that had grown in red after a burn and say with special fondness ‘Oh, Polly, you’re your father’s girl, you are.’ Though I don’t know who else’s I’d be, and never knew him, and Dr. Charles was bald up top, but something about that red tuft of hair delighted him and made me feel special. So who would quibble with that?
Whether I came from wolves or jackals and how my kind found their way from the wild to the trash heaps to the hearths of man doesn’t much matter to me. We did. But it does to them, because you see, they think they came from us… Well, it’s a long twisting story with lots of dead ends, but one of their word trails from people of long ago gives it away, saying: ‘the dog is what we would be, if we weren’t what we are.’ * So if I sniff it right, they think they lost something.
Being of the here and now, my paws firmly rooted in this earth and not yesterday or tomorrow, my nose was always at his feet. So when he took to his bed, with fever, coughing and crying out, and his hands now cold and clammy and his breath smelling sour, there was a stinking rot about him and I sensed his body becoming stiff and still like the earth. The play skittered right out of him, like a rogue breeze escaping to fresh air. There was no more going out, no whistle, no tick-tock of his stick, no tasting the salt of his hand.
I began to ache and slink away from a body whose life was leaving him as he cried to stay. With me! I held my breath, swallowed my cry, and the lump in my throat began to swell. A muffled whimper was all I could do.
Oh, they made fun of Dr. Charles, the naughty people did, for being sappy about dogs, for claiming we could return affection. [But the loving tickle of my belly or the taste of his tears returned in kind is something of the nature only he and I knew.] Dr. Charles once caught me barking at a parasol that was idly lolling in the wind on the lawn and he likened that to people’s belief in spirits. But that last day when I padded in to find him lying in the arms of our mistress, the wind blew the curtain twisting to be let out into the afternoon sunshine… and I jumped and with all the wolf in me let go a longing howl to follow. But he didn’t respond. Not even a lick and a promise. They latched the window and drew the drapes and his time stopped. The wind had swept him away as if there were no tomorrow …leaving no scent, no trace, no heart to rest a weary head on.
The outside lost its color, its voice, its touch, its breath. The old dog had gone away. They took his body and placed it in a gonging church. They took mine and buried me in a sack under the Kentish Beauty apple tree in the orchard, which was forever bearing fruit. …It was as if we’d taken one last turn on the Sandwalk, and he’d skedaddled off the path, and lost track of time.
Polly
(born—unknown *** died—-one sundown after my master)
***
Thursday, April 20, 1882
Polly died.
All the sons arrived.
--E.D.
(Published in the Summer Issue of THE BARK, 2013)
