WEDNESDAY
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A Thought for Today
The universe can change or perish, but
the soul lives on.
This
One Does It For Me!
Ken,
I've always loved Rod's poems and songs about ballooning, it's an interest
we share.
If you could lay your hands on them I'd love to read those poems again.
Peter Lewis
Here you go, Peter. All the
material below comes from Rod's wonderful book "We Touch The Sky" and we
kick off, as usual, with the introduction.
Author’s
Note
I have always thought of myself as a man of
the elements, realizing that my best ideas and, for me, the nearest
thing to knowledge have sprung from the realities of nature: the sea,
the earth, the sky, rather than from books of history, religion or
philosophy. And so, my life and work are filled with references to
seashells, living close to the ground, ballooning, biplaning and hiking
heavenward.
Fifteen years ago, I completed a trilogy of
poetry and prose: The Sea, The Earth and The Sky to
be read and recorded with music. The Sea contains many private
thoughts that later formed the basis if a book, Listen to the Warm.
The Earth was the genesis for such works as Fields of Wonder
and And to Each Season. Few of the things I originally wrote for
the album The Sky ever made their way into one of my books until
now.
The past five years of writing and
rewriting, I gathered together into a trilogy in a book form some of the
same elements I used in recording The Sea, The Earth and
The Sky. Though meant as an overall work, each volume stems from
a single encounter or idea. The books and records utilize the same
canvas but are painted differently.
In this final volume are eulogies for three
friends who died in 1978. One killed himself before he reached the age
of thirty, and appears near a poem I wrote about him in 1972. Another
died just as he passed his seventieth birthday. A third died at the age
of forty nine, outliving by ten years his doctor’s expectations. For
twenty years in a partnership, we wrote words and music together. Now I
continue to write verse for him.
R.M., April, 1979, New York City
Two
Ways of Flying Free
One: Heading Up
Up at 6 A.M., I track the near horizon while the sun is tracking me,
Topping trees, and skimming lakes, hopping over barnyard fences like a
skater on a pond trying to be dangerous by feigning figure 8's to gain
attention. I never thought that I’d come any closer to the heavens than to
climb a tree. But my balloon now lifts me higher than I’ve yet been lifted
- takes me farther down the road than I’ve yet gone. I’m careful not to
tamper with the unknown except to make it better known to me.
Two: Moving Beyond
On Monday evening, the twenty second of May, at exactly 9 P.M. - Pacific
Daylight Time - Ralph James Wass went into a bean field across the street
from his apartment in Costa Mesa, California, and placing a .38 caliber
revolver against his head proceeded with a single shot to take his life.
On the twentieth of July he would have been thirty years old. Though I
will evermore be sad, I was not surprised to hear the news. It could not
have been an easy journey to travel, lamb-like, in a world of wolves.
On the go, the twenty ninth of April in New York City, I turned forty
five. That same morning in Moscow, Roman Karmen turned toward the wall and
said: ‘I’m going’, then, in agony, he died. He had passed seventy, but he
should have gone to ninety five. He worked toward his death, slowly,
methodically and well. Ralph rode toward his in a Hudson or raced it on a
motorcycle.
Then, Brel in autumn. It took ten years of death’s round rattle before he
finally stumbled and was gone. Despite official word, I know that he still
walks the waterfront and sails the middle sea. Even now, he’s perched upon
the bedpost ready to advance another joke.
Through each man will now fly free, without them I feel bound.
BALLOON ONE / Perris, California
The first is up,
or going up.
It lifts off slowly.
Twin fires combine
like some eternal flame
to push and prod warm air
into that vast compartment
with its seven story ceiling.
Soon the quiet
soon the clouds,
as now another
tufted circle
is entering
the angel's playground
starts ascending.
Two there are
they could be
harbingers of hundreds.
A space age army
or armada
seeking space.
The grass still wet,
the sky just opening
woodchucks scatter in the lea
as foot by foot
and yard by cubic yard
the air is channeled
forced into another
and yet another
bright and billowing balloon.
Crows are crowing
hold the tether
don't let go
until we all let go.
Now douse the fire
and finish off the coffee.
The mist once heavy
as the heavens
now subsides
as up we go -
fast at first
then slower, slow.
Below us
all the world
spreads out and opens.
Now too, the sky
begins to open up
around, above us
rim to rim
one horizon to another.
Dogs and children
chase our shadow.
Trees are shrubs
And houses, dots and dashes.
Along the coastline
we dip to skim the water,
then rise higher to avoid
an early
splashdown.
Reach out and grab a handful
of the nearest cloud
as we sail even with
now past the
sun.
Far below
birds track our course.
If this is not land's end
coming up,
I know no better
Or more beautiful
Final finish line.
-
from "We Touch The Sky," 1979
NOTE: This is the original poem from the
British Edition. It was substantially rewritten for the US version
published in 1980. OK,
gang, that's it for this year. This column will be taking a break over
the festive season (we'll resume early in January) so thanks to all
who've contributed over the past twelve months and my very best wishes
to all of you for a blessed Christmas and a wonderfully prosperous New
Year.
- Ken, Johannesburg,
South Africa, December 10
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