“Take a Wild Ride”
April wind
apple blossoms
take a wild ride
—————–vrb
[in her hand just found
years later–a master snap
on its own path here
—————–rb]
The word PLAY here is used in the same sense as when we say someone plays shortstop, center field, or quarterback; baseball, football, golf, or cricket; chess or go; the guitar, trumpet, or serious piano. While the word carries suggestions of enjoyment & pleasure, it also implies full-&-present attention, focused effort, & a kind of experience that grows from practice through & across time. (The page could also be called Take a Wild Ride or Wild Rides with Virginia, adding “All downhill from here” for capper.)
At various times in her life, Virginia practiced the arts of piano, hula, acting, modern dance, yoga, tai chi, teaching, painting & poetry. In a way, all the others flowed into & became part of her poetry, from the direct experiences of life. She lived as attentively as she wrote, played, loved, wondered, explored, pondered, & shared. She shared as naturally as she breathed, and many of her poems were made as gifts from the heart to particular people (living & not).
I don’t remember her ever calling herself a poet, though some who knew her well enough certainly did. Even these (myself included) didn’t realize the depth & extent of her practice, however, let alone its full value. It may be that those who knew the person closely may be biased in our judgment of what she left behind, but it may also be that readers still to come will recognize & appreciate its value all the more for its purity of motive & integrity of purpose….
[–rb, June 4, 2020]
WEATHERGRAMS—Weathergrams are short verses copied onto paper strips by members of an Albuquerque calligraphy club, hung from branches in a grove by the Open Space Visitor’s Center at an annual “Poets’ Picnic,” & left to weather through the year. (A small printed edition raises funds for open-space efforts, but sells out quickly.)
The verses are short enough (like Yours Crudely’s attention span), stanzas are often worth repeating. Some of Virginia’s may appear three or more times–e.g., in the group sent for selection; as printed in the chapbook; as rendered & hung by the calligraphers.
on a blue page the sky is written
wing to wing across
the purple night
—a trail of stars
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(vrb, 2019)
–so black! so blue!
ravens swim
through morning sky
drift by drift
snowy owl slips
through yellow night
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(vrb, 2018)
when I call you say
I’m writing about loneliness
–call me back later
even among pines
some loneliness remains
tchip tchip tchip tchip
nuthatches fling out
chips of bark
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(vrb, 2017)
in quiet house
my mother pours new water
on her old teabag….
rain sounds all night
morning music pours
from my ears
an orange ribbon
soft moth wings
float slowly down
back into dream
long-legged cranes
wing to wing across
the purple night
—a trail of stars
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~(virginia)
[Here’s a change of pace just found in a folder with notes she made on classical compositions, looks like between 2007 & 2009. Un-dated, un-numbered, mostly un-punctuated & likely unfinished in her own mind, the report is part of a 3-page sequence offered in full at the bottom of the page.]
I slept through Paradise
last night stars
sliding down the
insides of
my eyelids
drifts & mists of sweetest
sound rising
in gentle (wavering) curtains
sheets of radiant song
–voice-shimmers beyond voice
choruses joined
in some new way–released
from bonds of air & lung
carried on their own currents
burst in fountains &
cascades & spray out
somewhere I am filling
& emptying at one floating
into (sigh) dawn clean
shaping itself a perfect
aurora
of music
light-song emerging
folding & unfolding rising
into
itself
no weight no self no body
endless empty
~~~~*~~~~
~~~~*~~~~
white lilacs
before sunrise
their own light
[In 1989, the Kaji Aso Studio & Boston Haiku Society named this their “Grand Prize Winner,” i.e., best haiku in English, & a grand prize it was, with a $250 check, a total surprise to Virginia, who hadn’t known it had been submitted (in a rush on the way out of town with the two of us setting out on a great cross-country journey).
She rarely, if ever, sent writing for publication herself–except in a few cases on urged invitation (as with her Orion Afield piece. She was happy enough for me to do so, however, though she’d usually have had final word before anything was sent. (I’d copied it exactly as it appeared on her 3″ x `5″ card.)
Her own publication attention went to things more like a ‘wetlands newsletter’ done with students at school. Still, she enjoyed shared projects organized by others–linked-poetry in the renga tradition, for example, or the article written with her teaching partner Karla Sampson on Mud-puddle Marsh, their Open Classroom (see Pdf on the Our little wetlands page).
Her most recently published piece was a reflection offered in response to her college class’ 55th anniversary report [below]. She might not have finished it on her own, needing some help in selection, organization & typing. She wasn’t much inclined to typing to begin with, preferring the attentive hand for final versions. Her hand on the page could be quite beautiful, & very much part of the personal sharing in mind & heart–e.g., gift to particular person.
Though she enjoyed the social exchange with creative friends, most of her writing (& art-works, too) happened more or less in solitude, mostly tucked away and forgotten moving on. She simply didn’t think about publication, recognition or status as poet or artist. As with her approach to dance & mountain trails in younger years, these were simply part of being more fully alive. Nevertheless, her capacity as poet deepened & expanded.
You could say, she loved poetry, but did not worship it, nor treat it as either a profession or a calling. (It was a calling though.) As both student & maker of poetry, she practiced purely for the love & learning of it, i.e., as an amateur, without poetic ideology. Having poets for friends, meant sometimes being invited &/or inspired to contribute something of her own.
In her case, she was just as often inspired to contribute poetry by family & friends, whether poets or not. In recent years hr more formal “submissions” were limited to sending up to 10 snapshots a year as Weathergram candidates, in response to direct invitation from an old friend. For this, her husband or daughter might first pick possibles she’d entered in the logbook at Inspiration or they found on scraps of paper left about–from which she’d select & make any changes.
—so black! so blue!
ravens swim
the morning sky
lemon-scented—
champak & temple flowers
pooled in a silver cup
drift by drift
snowy owl slips
through yellow night
one primrose open
yellow as the moon rising
between branches
light & cool—/
through waves of summer heat
one open primrose
on the long-needled pine
one golden leaf
hangs by a thread
__________________
Indeed, she was a master of the Basho moment, her senses well tuned to the world around & impression within. For her, it was not a “mastery” of anything, however, but a humble practice rooted in sensitive attention. For a long while, we practiced together as a family, our way of making snapshots.
We also tried our hands at ‘linked poetry’ (renga) with a few special friends like Elizabeth Lamb, Gary Vaughn, John Hazleton…. Elizabeth, Gary, Miriam Sagan, Virginia & I did a linking by mail once, between Albuquerque, Santa Fe & our Las Vegas, ending up with “Turquoise to Match the Sky,” published in an Ohio journal called Nexus.
We took many “haiku hikes” with John H., passing a pad back & forth between us along the trail-less way between our creek to his, climbing the steeply winding slope through Dragon’s Lair, up across & over the lightning field, down through Eden Canyon, up again toward the Sapello…. We used the practice to leave our chatter behind, while enhancing shared attention.
A happy participant & valued companion, Virginia was most likely to notice something worth the moment’s awe. She took “noticing” to heart as part of her daily life, and needed no special event to leave bits & pieces on scraps of paper or in non-oraganized notebooks. Poetry wasn’t an organizing principle to her–students were, teaching attention by example.
There was more to her poetry than “moments of keen perception feelingly expressed.” Her longer musings tend to express a yet more personal voice, thoughtful, explorative &/or dream-based, drawing from her rich musical-emotional sensibility….Sometimes, they weave verse moments with visual sketching &/or descriptive prose.
The following is a rare example that has her own life as subject–offered in in response to requests from her 55th Class ’64 Anniversary Report:
leaning by the door
New Year’s broom
sitting in snow
Often surprised just to be, with unpredictable variations one day or moment to the next. About three decades with Parkinson’s has taken some toll in falls, speech & executive functions. (As Gilda’s character used to say, “If it’s not one thing, it’s another.”) Yet still reporting in, & feeling connected.
already— this day like no other
Thanks to help from son Gus (who’d otherwise be in Hawaii), daughter Gita (an ecologist in Tucson), #1 spouse (the classy mate typing this for me now), & assorted friends, I’ve been managing warmer months at home in northern New Mexico, colder ones in a house next to Gita’s.
under plum blossoms
the old woman bows
white petals in her hair
A high point of Tucson time has been visits with former roommate Carol Goodman Forshey. We had some especially good laughs recalling Iris, the injured pigeon we secretly helped rehabilitate in our dorm room, despite the no pet rule. Does anybody else remember the lively “Iris Out” sign Carol made for our door when the bird was loose inside?
with flowers to guide us
dandelion iris honeysuckle tulips
this path—this hand—softly opens
In recent years, we’ve even managed a Tucson Harvard Club talk or two! Gita says I get a spark from thoughts of old friends and memories of grand times, so emails are welcome.
one by one into the green current
returned again
as root
as river as child
I do enjoy playing with pencils & paints, as well as the company of owls & various friends (human & otherwise), sometimes where dream, creative imagination, & memory flow together, floating beyond logic.
drift by drift
snowy owl slips
through yellow night
Things don’t always make sense to me even when they seem to hold together. I can forget something seemingly at hand, yet remember a lifetime of special friends & places, including college & schools I became part of (& vice versa). Sometimes it’s the other way around, & only now seems real—a grosbeak’s call, angle of light, giving full attention to balance.
yes, earth
the wind plays
these old bones
~~~ like a flatbed piano—
~~~ ready or not, here I come—
[P.S. Examples of the play in paints, paper & such are featured in the Alice’s Gallery & Poetry-Snap pages at www.bod-library.net, where there may also be news about the small collection of her work (& bio) currently being put together by & for friends.]
Costa Rican Spiral Notebook–
“Costa Rica, 5-6-02 through 5-14-02, gracias a Gita,” just found on a shelf in her room–more up soon….
WHITE SANDS Spiral Notebook:
one page free empty clear
~~~ night breeze
first shadow
~~~~~beetle tracks
~~~~~~~by the pink
~~~~~sand-verbena
~~~~~~~~~~~~5-27-02
vrb
black of the mind — trackless
60 years to prepare — to travel
from there to here
where we warm to
the mounting sun
from our night layered
in celebration/ inspiration
cloud & moon — chill
wild wind scattering all
each grain page word as it surfaces
crests & pours down — wrapped
& unwrapped — heart’s
cocoon opening
in the dunes
through my water bottle
both light & shadow
escarbo oscuro on its morning walk
follows the edge of our sleeping bag
shiney black — the sand rich ivory
smooth up onto the black cloth
…[&] disappearing
the dreamer walks disheveled
unknowing
wakes to find a line of
tiny insect prints
at the edge of her blanket
~~~~~~~~~light before
~~~~~~~~~~~the sun itself
in the dream
in the young light
he plants a tooth
hole in the sand
rippled
damp
something will grow
from the ancient bed
[We had many special times at White Sands, where in return for a “Full Moon” Chautauqua in the Heart of the Dunes, the management gave us the place for the night, closing the gate when everyone left. Being in the heart of the dunes, not a camping area, meant solitude as far as the eye could see–Holloman Air Force Base & Alamagordo in one direction, the moon & cosmos in another….
This particular time was something extra, our full moon program being the night of May 26, her 60th birthday. Gus had joined us, too, & faithful chow Wookie had come along. At some point in the presentation, all joined in a surprise round of “Happy Birthday.” When all visitors had gone, we pulled out refreshments & celebrated with our friend, John Mangimelli, the park supervisor who’d organized the event. When he left, the magic of the dunes splashed the celebration up a notch, beyond words….. By dawn, Virginia was already tracking insect prints to her pink sand-verbena.]
[In the same spiral book from the White Sands Gift Shop, after a blank page, she has two pages dated 6-15-02, with initials indicating she was thinking of my late father, whose birthday it was, as well as me & Gus (whose 35th had been 10 days before, 10 after hers), followed by one dated 6-16-02 & another with her charcoal sketch of the fire-pit.]
cree! cree! young kestrel
in the morning sun calling
to its father
trying to perch on the wire –its tail
back
& forth
tipped… too far
–falling
into flight
the whole meadow warmed
smell of dead fish
from the riverbed
a few pools left — the robins keep singing
for this day the wild roses slowly open
for this day { beauty
no less than yesterday
wake up! you are called
to make choices
to decide & carry out
—
my hair long & wispy
will I cut its shadow? short
& clean, calling m,y daughter
from her tent to wield
the scissors–snip, snip the years
fly back
– – –
wrapped in my son’s journey cloth
14 beginnings –at the whistle
of a dove’s wings
we begin again
where she slept
the orchard grass
her shape
I see her rise again
from sleep, & as she walks
a certain light
[She brought the same spiral notebook along at what was probably our next White Sands program/ night in the Heart of the Dunes, after leaving a half-dozen or so blank, there are three dated 61- & 6-2-04, including:]
over the dunes a web of stars
asleep awake
still there
the threads that pull apart/ together the same
footprints in the sand
follow! where do they end?
over my dreams in my dreams
whose tracks are those?
I hear you
I hear you, wanderer
a fine-toothed comb
this wind of the dunes,
sorting out the strands
of every trail–beetle & mouse
sneaker, sparrow, the dots
of a leaf-hopper
between the grains
season by season the grip
& growth of a yucca as
the sand moves through
in silence, one piece at a time,
& little slides that through
a lens we see each differs….
Babble & song — the voices of jets
& of the great dunes themselves
taken up & laid down smooth
as creation itself–
this tiny leaf-hopper–
such a perfect shadow, half-sun
golden/green through your wings
each seg,ment of each leg
the curve of each eye
looking testng — hop!
run hop! look up–
———————————–
a bed of sand white &
gently curved in th emoonlight
we lay our covers down
crawl between…blink
& listen for shooting stars
unused to such
our bodies shift–shaping
to each other th ehard/ soft
beneath & irresistible looking up
the chill night breeze
creeps in at the edge
one more blink–moon for sun
light on your neck the tangled strands
a star at each crossing
———————————
———————————
[& countless pages following still blank–
Though not our last White Sand adventure, I think, saving another, maybe 2007, for John Mangimelli’s retirement, his last program as host…trying to do bits from each of the other many programs done together over the years–Basho, Omar Barker, Aldo Leopold, Ansel Adams, and maybe a few more, most then sleeping on the dunes with Virginia….]
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
[The following 3 stapled pages were just found in a folder with notes on classical compositions, seemingly from 2007-2009. Otherwise un-dated, un-numbered, mostly un-punctuated and likely unfinished in her own mind, the pages are presented here in their original order, though page 3 could also go first, as well as stand alone. There seems to be little, if any, embellishment to the clear descriptions that simply report her experience.]
[1]
In my room at night
in the early hours, I listen
to music–
western, classical, arias, concertos,
quartets, trios, fugues, preludes,
parts & wholes,
piano & flute, strings, horn,
oboes, loud & soft, brassy, lifting,
in & out of sleep–dreams lifted
above the covers.
~~~~*~~~~
[2]
my little clock radio,
numbers glowing red:
12:01 2:15 4:39
through walls & distance,
deep soul-sounds carry
in the palpable dark, fill
my being with waves
as morning seeps in
& the moths stir again
against my window,
behind, under, past
morning edition news
~~~~*~~~~
[3]
I slept through Paradise
last night stars
sliding down the
insides of
my eyelids
drifts & mists of sweetest
sound rising
in gentle (wavering) curtains
sheets of radiant song
–voice-shimmers beyond voice
choruses joined
in some new way–released
from bonds of air & lung
carried on their own currents
burst in fountains &
cascades & spray out
somewhere I am filling
& emptying at one floating
into (sigh) dawn clean
shaping itself a perfect
aurora
of music
light-song emerging
folding & unfolding rising
into
itself
no weight no self no body
endless empty
~~~~*~~~~~~~~*~~~~
(potsong)
the pot is fired
with wood & dung
naked we enter the flame
emerge clothed
in smoke & whispers
{—blow on me splash
in the river
rub my skin, I will rub yours}
clean & sweet-smelling
like pine
I fill my pot
from the lake
here—take this water
in your pot
& I can bring more…
(here—we’ll sit together
tell me your stories
I will sing to you)
2 old pots cracked & mended
pitch-glued, leaning a bit
—round & warm—scrubbed
bone—thin—
a late soft wind—
from inside,
the smell of herbs…corn
…& wet clay
set out to dry
in the sun
*
Here are selections from just one little green Memo-Book recently found & transcribed, yet with considerable variety of its own: Green Memo Book (2016) [Click to open.]
Lots more writing to go–even without her last offerings, what she had to say along that final border. At dawn on what could have been her last Sunday, for example, Gus saw her facing the east window, her two hands gently waving the sun up, as she spoke:
~~~~”one more hula
~~~~ under the blue sky.”
Another time, “diving from the high board/ seeing the mountains upside down/ with no bottom….”
While these drew strong memories from different ages into the new moment, others during this period came from scouting out ahead: “It’s different/ on the other side–,” she said./ “It really is.” Her voice was just a whisper then, every word taking effort. Her presence, & her hand when held, could speak volumes– & call our runoff forth–filling the pads we used for notes with running ink. Her words & ours, mixed together in the scribblings (along with emotional blubber & practical notes), will need some sorting, transcribing & selecting before going up.
Setting these aside for now, selections are being added from earlier times without much attention to chronology (or level of ‘finishing’). Some previously published materials are included, like the Weathergrams & her recent Class Report–an autobiographical weaving of prose & poetry. But so are pieces found scribbled on scraps of paper tucked here & there.
In between the scribbled scrap & published piece are materials in many dual-pocket portfolio folders & all sorts of little note-books, often undated, as well as a few sketchbooks (like her White Sands Journal, which she brought with her on various visits there). Most individual pieces have a finished quality, a coherence sometimes capped by her illustrations, though some are still clearly in progress–with alternatives not yet resolved.
She used various notebooks, cards & scraps of paper to test out squiggles & fragments, make shopping & to-do lists, etc. but in or on which little gems also appear. Often, there’s no clear distinction between notebook & sketchbook, pen-play & art play. Whether finely set on a visually finished sketch-book page or doodled upside down in a random section of a spiral notebook from the back inward, words & visuals are often found together.
As discussed elsewhere, many of her poems were written as offerings, letters or gifts to individuals. Most of these were complete & delivered. A few were written to particular friends or loved ones after they had passed, and, being unsendable, may seem less finished simply from penmanship. The communication is not on the paper, in other words, though when shared by means of it, may show the same care.
Although all letter-poems may qualify more broadly, the love-letter also becomes a category of its own. It’s like that Virginia had been deeply moved as a girl by the love-poems of the Barrett-Brownings (Elizabeth & Robert), as well as others here & there over the years. “How do I love thee, let me count the ways….” Hers flowed with characteristic spontaneity, directness & connectivity–not about feelings, but the feelings themselves evocatively embodied in the music language & experience can make together.
Her love poems should have a room of their own, on the site soon. Ditto for at least three or four other categories–snap-poems; inspirations from music & other arts; personal explorations…. This page includes a mostly unsystematic sampling….a long scroll changing its character on the way.