BY JAN HAAG
INTRODUCTION +
POETRY
+
MUSIC +
ESSAYS
+ TRAVEL +
FICTION
+
TEXTILE
ART +
HAAG'S BIO
of exhortation based on an ancient Sufi form.
(in alphabetical order)
- C -
CARDAMOM
01-01-98 (517, Seattle)
Elaichi, Queen of the Spices,
tasting of clean
tasting of
pure
tasting of refresh
tasting of aromatic breath,
prana,
Elaichi
CAUTION
1988?
The hills of the Angel's City
stand forth sharp as a
silhouette
under the clouds,
under the smoke.
Sometimes the sun
shines through
like the beam of a crystal laser.
They say, O
Devayani, the beam of a laser
can touch the moon,
coherent light
shines on
beyond Andromeda.
Even beyond the boundaries of the
heart,
it shines on,
So much clarity,
O Devayani, so much clarity
for we who live
on the hills, in the clouds, in the smoke
would blind our two eyes.
CHANTING
1988?
Her back as straight as a rule,
her repose as solid as stone
she
sits in the middle of the music
which makes the bell hum,
which
resonates the drum.
Her song the murmuring of bees,
the
sough-sough-soughing of pines --
O Devayani, such peace!
Listen
to the grey nun
sitting in the middle of the music,
each luminous
note,
an infinitely reflecting pearl,
a node of Indra's
net.
Feel the waves of the music
as they pass the barrier of
silence.
O such peace!
O Devayani, can there be such peace for me?
CHRISTMAS THOUGHTS
1228 San Anselmo, before 12-25-97
O Devayani,
two cultures, or more than two,
the world
around
you study and study the world
around,
interested in
everything,
amazed that anyone can be human
and not interested
in
everyone,
everything,
and yet you succeed only in
putting yourself outside the pale
of America
in being interested
in everything
everyone
every culture,
especially on
Christmas.
The Jewess complaining the other day about
President
Clinton lighting the
Christmas tree at the Whitehouse for
all
America, Americans,
and never seeming, even in his
well educated
brain,
to realize that All Americans
do not believe in nor celebrate
Christmas.
Take a survey, I thought, I
wondered if there
already are more
American Muslims, Jews, Hindus,
Buddhists,
Shintoist, Shamanist,
praisers of God in many disguises than
Christians in this country today,
more Americans of other
religions
than Christian
already,
who do not put up
Christmas trees,
nor participate in the mass buying.
"The season"
was bad say the
retailers. Well, maybe
they'll eventually
guess
that there are more non-Christians in
America then there are
buy-mad Christians,
as well as Christians
who forgo
buying
frenzies
to celebrate the birth
of their esthetic
leader.
But Christmas is only a small
symptom
of being
alive in a world
where this particular segment where I dwell still
wants
to think East and West,
yours and mine,
superior and
inferior
developed and undeveloped
civilized and primitive,
how
odd the dualisms
are in a world
that has already discovered
that cultures
far higher than ours
flourished
centuries
ago
across the mountains and seas,
that we have come down
to
modern materialism
from far higher planes,
that it substitutes
for cultures
for grander far older
though less
publicize.
O Devayani,
it is so easy for you to see one world,
for you to see the absurdity of
writing a World History
and
giving the history of
only the Western world.
Do you belong to a race of ostriches?
CLAIRE TOWNSEND
1228 San Anselmo, before 12-25-97
Clare means clear,
O Devayani,
or, in this case,
luminous.
Clair
de lune
means
moonlight,
luminous.
Claire,
O
Devayani,
also meant
your friend,
Claire Townsend,
luminous,
as
human beings go.
Gazelle-like,
tall,
leggy,
bright-eyed,
rosy-cheeked,
often frenetic,
full
of a
luscious laughter,
and bright!
bright as the moon,
able to take law
notes,
instantly
outlining them cogently in
four
colors.
Quickly,
she perceived and did and trusted.
Before she was
twenty, talking
to congressmen, senators,
championing the aged.
She
was ebullient.
O Devayani, you've always wondered
why that "bull" is in
ebullient.
Suddenly you know why.
Claire was ebullient,
light as a
laser
and determined as a bull,
light and bullish,
light and
effervescent,
impatient with passion,
determined to bring peace to the
earth.
She had a passion to see,
to see, O Devayani,
to see so
clearly,
to do so exactly
what her luminous visions
kicked up dust, like
the bull
who paws the earth, snorting,
then charges.
She was luminous
with desire
to create
in this world,
to ferment
in this world
her
clare ideas.
She manifested in life
the beliefs she
saw
painted in effulgence,
smeared in brilliance
across the screens of
this world.
Before law she did film,
20th Century Fox,
a "baby
mogul,"
and after law she did film,
independently --
the last one,
the
story of
Peace Pilgrim,
the fitting achievement of a lifetime.
Her
high pitched laughter,
like a sine wave,
creating the mantra
of her
life
as clearly as
OM,
as clearly as the
jewel in the lotus,
Om
mani padme hum.
O Claire
you left so early,
O Claire,
Devayani
thought
you would be there forever,
like the sun.
Even at
distances
of time and space
your warmth shed radiance
scattered
compassion --
your bullish
nature
enforcing the
effulgence of
God.
We'll miss that light,
O numinous Claire.
We must shift the
hologram,
rearrange the knowledge that some place
on earth you are
shining.
You left,
O so early,
Claire,
to distribute
your
chromosomes
among the stars,
to dance about in the air
we
breathe.
In remembrance, O
Claire,
Devayani says:
There are
some people in the world
you don't have to hold tightly,
there are some
people in the world
you know you can trust.
There is music so
perfect
you need not hear it twice.
It changes existence like a brush with a
star,
like a nudge from light itself.
The bullishness of light --
who
can stop it,
O Devayani?
Who can stop the laser
racing to the
moon.
Clair de lune,
O Devayani
Claire has become
the light of
the moon.
Cherish
the kiss of moonlight,
so light.
Who can
touch light?
Claire did.
She is gone!
The Pilgrim of Peace
smiles,
"She is here."
Her story is my story.
I asked her to come a
little early,
so we could take a walk,
have a talk,
perhaps increase the light
CLAIRE TOWNSEND (long line)
1228 San Anselmo, before 12-25-97
Clare means clear, O Devayani, or, in this case,
luminous.
Clair de lune
means moonlight,
luminous.
Claire, O Devayani, also meant your
friend,
Claire Townsend,
luminous, as human beings go.
Gazelle like,
tall, leggy, bright eyed, rosy cheeked,
often frenetic,
full
of luminous
laughter,
and bright! bright as the moon,
able to take law notes,
to
outline them quick! cogently in
three or four colors.
She perceived and did
and trusted.
She was ebullient.
O Devayani, you've always
wondered
why that "bull" is in ebullient.
Suddenly you know.
Claire was
ebullient: light as a laser
and determined as a bull,
light and
bullish,
light and effervescent,
seething with passion,
ferocious in her
longing to bring peace to the earth.
She had a passion to see,
to see, O
Devayani,
to see so clearly, to do so exactly
what her luminous
visions
kicked up dust, like the bull
who, snorting, paws the
earth.
She was luminous with desire to create
in this world, to ferment
in this world
her clare ideas.
She manifested in life
the beliefs
she saw painted in effulgence,
smeared in brilliance across the radiance
of
the sky,
ideas whose
luster
outshown the Aurora
Borealis'
splendor
flashing, jagged across the sky.
Her high pitched
laughter,
like a sine wave,
creating the mantra of her life
as clearly
as
OM,
as clearly as the jewel in the lotus,
Om mani padme hum.
O
Claire, you left so early, O Claire.
Devayani thought you would be there
forever,
like the sun.
Even at distances of time and space
your warmth
shed radiance,
scatter luminosity,
your bullish nature enforcing the
effulgence of God.
We'll miss that light,
O numinous Claire.
We must
shift the hologram,
rearrange the knowledge that someplace
on earth you are
shining.
You left,
O so early,
Claire,
to distribute your
luminosity among the stars.
to dance about in the ether we breathe.
In
remembrance, O Claire, Devayani says:
There are some people in the world you
don't have to hold tightly,
there are some people in the world you can
trust,
there is music so perfect you need not hear it twice.
It changes
existence with even a breath,
like a brush from a star, like a nudge from light
itself.
The bullishness of light -- who can stop it,
O Devayani?
Who
can hold back the laser racing to the moon?
Clair de lune, O
Devayani,
Claire has become
the light of the moon.
Cherish the kiss
of moonlight, so light.
Who can touch light.
Claire did.
CLIMATIC CHANGES
1228 San Anselmo, before 12-25-97
O, Devayani, the sun has little strength
to part the clouds,
mist hangs in
the air,
and rain.
The coolness and dampness of winter
shroud the
trees, the flowers, the garden,
yellow with blossoms. which cries for
heat.
People put on their scarves and their sweats again.
O Devayani,
they speak to each other about the weather.
It is unseasonably cool, chilly,
they say.
O Devayani, you push deep into the covers at night for the
warmth
wondering about the next ice age.
O, Devayani, ages have come and
gone across the earth,
They will come again.
Will we know the
beginning of the next burning?
The next mortal freeze?
Who will believe
it? The floods come and we rebuild.
When will the ice drive us south?
Will
the ice drive us south?
When will what we have made of the earth devour us.
Will it devour us?—
this civilization without mercy,
this civilization
without sunlight.
O, Devayani, this civilization is without sunshine
in
the summer.
Without fruit in the fall. Without rest in the winter.
Without
generation in the spring.
If you stab through a human heart with an
icicle,
it leaves no trace.
CONSIDER SLOW COOLING
11-30-97
"I made my first sculpted
human figure from five different metals. But when I had finished welding
it together, I took the hot metal out into the cold winter air and the
whole thing contracted at different rates. It flew apart in my hands.
That was my lesson in slow cooling. There was no saving it. It flew into
hundreds of pieces."
Harold Schwarm
Hmmmmm, Devayani,
five
metals,
hot to cold,
contraction at different rates,
leaping back
to stasis,
it'll shatter in your hands.
Consider the surprise
element.
White snow all around,
a hot new sculpture in your
hands,
the frigid air like God's fist
shattering it into
drifts.
Consider the sound, popping
and hissing, cracking
and
still small shieks in the stillness
of an early dawn dedicated
to
creation. Explosion!
Consider the smell, the ice-fresh
dawn,
the sun contemplating its rise, the scent of sun rays,
the
bare, structural trees, standing,
their odorless limbs angular to their
trunks,
sap gone to their roots.
Consider the taste: Hot metal
even in
the kitchen has a taste of over-ripeness,
enriched.
Chruuuuuuaaang! The smell/taste
is gone, melting like daggers
in
the snow, the taste of feathery water.
Consider the touch, hot in
your gloves --
you must have been wearing gloves.
How hot can a
statue be --
while being transported into
glacial conditions?
You can touch the fragments,
but not the whole.
Before the
fire there was belly,
buns, arms and legs,
a noble head, texture
like a human skin.
It stood in your hands for a few
moments,
maybe longer. Out of the fire, on to the ledge,
or the
floor, you watched it while putting on
your overcoat in the hot/frigid
air of the foundry.
It wasn't very big on the ground, the dirt
floor.
You fingered it with fleecy gloves, thick
leather on the
outside.
Take it home! You're tired of the heat,
of the sweat of
creation.
You stoop, retrieve --
O Devayani, watch this!
--
walk down the hall,
push open the great double
doors,
grateful the foundry isn't yours.
Someone else will damp down
the furnace,
douse the lamps needed to illunimate the
cavernous
space even in the day.
You've got a human figure
now;
you feel you could slip through the molecules
of the door
without opening it,
but settle for a conventional exit.
Your
genius is in the work. The conception.
Thud! Explosion! Your hands
are flung out
and crumpled in,
there's a hit in the belly.
By
the time you worry about your eyes,
the fragments are skidding on the
ice
of the walkway that brought you empty-handed in
and will take
you empty-handed out,
the ice air like fire in your
lungs.
Should you pick up the pieces
like shovel slashes in the
snow?
You made a human figure,
O Devayani, did you see the human
figure?
-- attracting the fog
in the frigid air,
condensing
the light,
feel its response to the freedom of the world,
the air,
the breath of existence! --
exploding in the snow.
CREAMY CARAMEL COFFINS
10-31-02
The morning of Halloween Devayani wakes
to candy at the door,
wrapped
and balled and shaped into Skull
Pops with two spider
rings, one
orange and one black, a widow,
no doubt, along with
two Creamy
Caramel Coffins in which to sequester
her
teeth after the wild invasion
of sugar and sweetness and
remembrance
of escape from former Hallows' eves
into the silent
contentment of All
Soul's Day, the inevitable Day of
the
Dead. Shiva gets the spiders
while you're out for your morning
walk, across the Aurora Bridge, high-flung
and never before walked
-- in glorious
sunshine, Tahoma, the mountain, out, colors
ablaze in response to the first
grass-whitening frost. After
Shiva'a morning
foray -- breaking your favorite glass in
his
passion to pat everything to
floor level for tumultuous play --
Shiva
strides about, a full body undulation,
the hunter's
elegant slink, Creamy Caramel
Coffins quite beyond his ken.
Spider
body parts lie scattered about among
straws he steals
from my coffee
cup. The neat packages of life
I once knew as
each day's
progression, are transmuted moment by moment
into Trick or Treat. Mostly tricks
via Devayani to keep from
being
buried alive in Creamy Caramel Coffins
and treats from
Shiva, licking his
chops, testing my flesh for delectation
as he prepares his broomstick flights.
"CREATION IS A DESTRUCTIVE ACTIVITY."
The Presence of Shiva, p. 250
5319 9th, after 5-10-96
I
"Creation is a destructive activity."
O Devayani, the fury rises
in your blood!
Don't do it!
Don't make it!
Refuse your humanity!
Side
with the Great God
Siva.
Asked three times by Brahma,
Siva refused to
create humans.
Twice he tore off his phallus,
send it ravaging through the
world,
called it to a halt in a pillar of fire.
Illumination.
All
illumination declared:
Creation is a destructive act.
Don't do it!
Don't
create.
Remain in your loneliness,
weep for your partner,
weep for a
companion,
weep for something to do
outside your absolutness, but
hesitate!
Hesitate!
Hesitate to create!
To bring into being
this being
of infinte greed,
of rampaging evil,
of willful negation,
of determined
self-regard.
O Siva, O ascetic God, Devayani weeps.
Brahama forced,
tricked, coerced
you into creating propagating beings.
You didn't want to do
it.
You didn't want to do it.
You didn't want to do it.
You forced
Brahama to use his own seed,
and none of your own.
O Siva, O ascetic God,
Devayani weeps.
"Creation is a destructive activity."
II
Creation "...violates the integrity of the
indefinable absolute,
making manifest and disseminating its contents."
p.250
Trying , even not seriously,
to become a creator of music, O
devayani,
has destroyed the mystery and
beauty of the uncreate
to
understand is to destroy
III
"...the extend of
the manifest world;
the four orients refer to the movement of the sun.
They indicate the cosmos under the rule of time." p.251
CYBERSPACE
1-14-97
O Devayani, you are nervous as you begin this,
this first experiment of writing directly
in cyberspace.
Where will it go? Who will see it?
Who will care?
God?
-D-
Dear Abby
INDEX
- B -
Beauty, before 1996
to
Burning, 05-06 before 1996
-C-
Cardamom, 01-01-98
Caution, 1988?
Chanting, 1988?
Christmas Thoughts, before
5-10-96
Claire Townsend, before
5-10-96
Claire Townsend (long line),
before 5-10-96
Climatic Changes, before
12-25-97
Consider Slow Cooling, 11-30-97
Consider Slow Cooling,
11-30-97
Creation Is A Destructive
Activity, after 5-10-96
Cyberspace, 01-14-97
Cyberspace, 01-14-97
-D-
Dear Abby
Copyright © 2002 Jan Haag
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Jan Haag may be reached via e-mail: jhaag@janhaag.com or
jhaag@u.washington.edu
BY JAN HAAG
POETRY +
MUSIC +
ESSAYS +
TRAVEL +
FICTION +
TEXTILE ART
INTRODUCTION +
HAAG'S BIO