Without Lifting A Finger

My little poem "Writer's Block" is in Tipton Poetry Journal. Accessible online (Issue #54, p. 23). Thanks to the editor and all the good folks at Tipton. Check it out. Tipton Poetry Journal (Issue #54)

 

Kiesewetter, a thick-set, grisly man, spoke English, and a thin young girl, with a pince-nez, translated it into Russian promptly and well. He was saying that our sins were so great, the punishment for them so great and so unavoidable, that it was impossible to live anticipating such punishment. "Beloved brothers and sisters, let us for a moment consider what we are doing, how we are living, how we have offended against the all-loving Lord, and how we make Christ suffer, and we cannot but understand that there is no forgiveness possible for us, no escape possible, that we are all doomed to perish. A terrible fate awaits us---everlasting torment," he said, with tears in his trembling voice. "Oh, how can we be saved, brothers? How can we be saved from this terrible, unquenchable fire? The house is in flames; there is no escape."

One of the most widespread superstitions is that every man has his own special, definite qualities; that a man is kind, cruel, wise, stupid, energetic, apathetic, etc. Men are not like that. We may say of a man that he is more often kind than cruel, oftener wise than stupid, oftener energetic than apathetic, or the reverse; but it would be false to say of one man that he is kind and wise, of another that he is wicked and foolish. And yet we always classify mankind in this way. And this is untrue. Men are like rivers: the water is the same in each, and alike in all; but every river is narrow here, is more rapid there, here slower, there broader, now clear, now cold, now dull, now warm. It is the same with men. Every man carries in himself the germs of every human quality, and sometimes one manifests itself, sometimes another, and the man often becomes unlike himself, while still remaining the same man, In some people these changes are very rapid, and Nekhludoff was such a man.

"I said I had come to ask you to forgive me," he began. "What's the use of that? Forgive, forgive, where's the good of--" "To atone for my sin, not by mere words, but in deed. I have made up my mind to marry you." An expression of fear suddenly came over her face. Her squinting eyes remained fixed on him, and yet seemed not to be looking at him. "What's that for?" she said, with an angry frown. "I feel that it is my duty before God to do it." "What God have you found now? You are not saying what you ought to. God, indeed! What God? You ought to have remembered God then," she said, and stopped with her mouth open. It was only now that Nekhludoff noticed that her breath smelled of spirits, and that he understood the cause of her excitement.

And none of those present, from the inspector down to Maslova, seemed conscious of the fact that this Jesus, whose name the priest repeated such a great number of times, and whom he praised with all these curious expressions, had forbidden the very things that were being done there; that He had prohibited not only this meaningless much-speaking and the blasphemous incantation over the bread and wine, but had also, in the clearest words, forbidden men to call other men their master, and to pray in temples; and had ordered that every one should pray in solitude, had forbidden to erect temples, saying that He had come to destroy them, and that one should worship, not in a temple, but in spirit and in truth; and, above all, that He had forbidden not only to judge, to imprison, to torment, to execute men, as was being done here, but had prohibited any kind of violence, saying that He had come to give freedom to the captives. No one present seemed conscious that all that was going on here wa

I shall tell her, Katusha, that I am a scoundrel and have sinned towards her, and will do all I can to ease her lot. Yes, I will see her, and will ask her to forgive me. "Yes, I will beg her pardon, as children do." . . . He stopped---"will marry her if necessary." He stopped again, folded his hands in front of his breast as he used to do when a little child, lifted his eyes, and said, addressing some one: "Lord, help me, teach me, come enter within me and purify me of all this abomination." He prayed, asking God to help him, to enter into him and cleanse him; and what he was praying for had happened already: the God within him had awakened his consciousness. He felt himself one with Him, and therefore felt not only the freedom, fulness and joy of life, but all the power of righteousness. All, all the best that a man could do he felt capable of doing.

Snow Geese @ Ken Malloy Regional Park. #1 to #3: the one blue/dark morph (juvenile) in the park; #4 to #6: the whites (a half dozen or so). From the little I've read on the topic: the blue guy will eventually get a white head.:) TGIF. #rlswihart13 #lacounty #kenmalloyharborregionalpark #kenmalloy #geeseofinstagram #snowgeese #bluegoose #darkmorph #nature #beauty #poetry #tgif #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦 ☃️🌲❄️

Nekhludoff looked at the prisoners. They whose fate was being decided still sat motionless behind the grating in front of the soldiers. Maslova was smiling. Another feeling stirred in Nekhludoff's soul. Up to now, expecting her acquittal and thinking she would remain in the town, he was uncertain how to act towards her. Any kind of relations with her would be so very difficult. But Siberia and penal servitude at once cut off every possibility of any kind of relations with her. The wounded bird would stop struggling in the game-bag, and no longer remind him of its existence.

Rereading The Fall. If pimps and thieves were invariably sentenced, all decent people would get to thinking they themselves were constantly innocent, cher monsieur. And in my opinion—all right, all right, I’m coming!—that’s what must be avoided above all. Otherwise, everything would be just a joke.

Red-breasted Sapsucker @ Ken Malloy Regional. There and gone again in a previous visit. This time he landed in a tree (while I was shooting snow geese) and gave me two shots.:) Gotta love the red. #rlswihart13 #lacounty #kenmalloy #sapsuckersofinstagram #sapsuckers #redbreastedsapsucker #nature #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦

The essential thing to recognize, and enjoy, was the noble patina which rested on a work of art which had lasted beyond its own century. “That is also historical awareness. Nothing else is in our power, and that is enough,” maintained his colleague.

White-tailed Kite @ Harriett Wieder Park in Huntington Beach CA.  #rlswihart13 #huntingtonbeachca #harriettwiederpark #kitesofinstagram #whitetailedkite #nature #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦

I can say that, being a professor of literature, and say it to you, my colleague. My nerves shriek in dread at the thought of no longer possessing a historical consciousness, because it means that our day and age will disappear along with us, so when we stage Ibsen at the National Theater, my nerves relax, because if we can stage a play from the last century in one of the country’s finest buildings, with extensive publicity and often to a full house, then the coming generations may regard us in the same light. But it isn’t Ibsen’s work we perform, it’s Ibsen’s reputation. To the work as such, we are more or less indifferent, yes we are, now barely a hundred years after it was written. It’s the stage director’s work we see performed, Stein Winge’s or Kjetil Bang-Hansen’s. It’s Winge’s work and Ibsen’s reputation. My stomach churns in protest at the thought of there being no reputation so great that it can’t survive a hundred years. We want to have immortal works, but do such things exis

 

"I was beside myself. I accused her of indelicacy. She made the same accusation against me, and the dispute broke out. In her words, in the expression of her face, of her eyes, I noticed again the hatred that had so astonished me before. With a brother, friends, my father, I had occasionally quarrelled, but never had there been between us this fierce spite. Some time passed. Our mutual hatred was again concealed beneath an access of sensual desire, and I again consoled myself with the reflection that these scenes were reparable faults. "But when they were repeated a third and a fourth time, I understood that they were not simply faults, but a fatality that must happen again. I was no longer frightened, I was simply astonished that I should be precisely the one to live so uncomfortably with my wife, and that the same thing did not happen in other households. I did not know that in all households the same sudden changes take place, but that all, like myself, imagine that it is

Almost at the same moment I felt two little arms about me — one of them touched my neck and the other lay upon my face — and at the same time an anxious, gentle, friendly voice uttered the question: “What ails you?” I was ready to believe that some one else was asking me this and not Natasha, who had just declared that all men were scoundrels, and expressed a wish for their destruction. But she it was, and now she began speaking quickly, hurriedly. “What ails you, eh? Are you cold? Are you frozen? Ah, what a one you are, sitting there so silent like a little owl! Why, you should have told me long ago that you were cold. Come … lie on the ground … stretch yourself out and I will lie … there! How’s that? Now put your arms round me?… tighter! How’s that? You shall be warm very soon now… And then we’ll lie back to back… The night will pass so quickly, see if it won’t. I say … have you too been drinking?… Turned out of your place, eh?… It doesn’t matter.” And she comforted me… She encourage

  My poem "Here We Go 'Round" came out @ The Red Ogre November 1. Something about childhood. Ideas. Roses of all kinds.:) Give it a whirl! Here We Go 'Round

Reading. Finished Barnes ' Arthur and George (after watching the PBS series) and have moved on to Gorky. I've tried some stories before and gave up. This time starting with his autobio (I have two of three parts) and enjoying it. This snippet is about his grandmother (paragraphs be damned.:)): “But why do people abandon children?” “It is because the mother has no milk, or anything to feed her baby with. Then she hears that a child which has been born somewhere lately is dead, and she goes and leaves her own there.” She paused and scratched her head; then sighing and gazing at the ceiling, she continued: “Poverty is always the reason, Oleysha; and a kind of poverty which must not be talked about, for an unmarried girl dare not admit that she has a child people would cry shame upon her. “Grandfather wanted to hand Vaniushka over to the police, but I said ‘No, we will keep him ourselves to fill the place of our dead ones. For I have had eighteen children, you know. If they had al

Lapland Longspur @ Pattinson Park in Huntington Beach CA. Hadn't heard of it before (breeds in the Arctic but comes down on holiday:)). Another fan (with binoculars) helped me locate it on the ground (in a shady patch not far from the finches) and I refound it later and luckily got one near-perfect pose. Made my morning.

 

 

Let’s put it this way. A man meets an alien. How does each figure out that the other is intelligent?” “No idea,” Valentine said merrily. “All I’ve read on the subject reduces to a vicious circle. If they are capable of contact, then they are intelligent. And conversely, if they are intelligent, then they are capable of contact. And in general: if an alien creature has the honor of being psychologically human, then it’s intelligent. That’s how it is, Richard. Read Vonnegut?”

One shot (two versions): early morning: Eurasian Blue Tit. On the outskirts of Kazimierz Dolny, Poland. #rlswihart13 #kazimierzdolny #poland #titsofeurope #titsofinstagram #bluetit #nature #poetry #beauty #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦

After he said good-bye to the Madam and shook Benny’s hand, Noonan drove straight to the Borscht. The problem is we don’t notice the years pass, he thought. Screw the years—we don’t notice things change. We know that things change, we’ve been told since childhood that things change, we’ve witnessed things change ourselves many a time, and yet we’re still utterly incapable of noticing the moment that change comes—or we search for change in all the wrong places.

Little Blue Heron (Lifer) @ Bolsa Chica. Saw it on ebird and I had to try. Saw at least three reddish egrets (similar but bigger with a redder "mane"), including an immature (hardly any mane). Had to post (in case you want to give it a go), but I'm back from Poland now so I'll be flip-flopping a bit: Poland/SCal. Go Blue & TGIF!!!🌞 #rlswihart13 #southerncalifornia #bolsachica #bolsa #heronsofinstagram #littleblueheron #nature #poetry #beauty #tgif #goblue #readmorepoetry2022

Rewatched Tarkovsky's Stalker first (found it free on Hulu or somewhere), so I could feel the difference: both great. Excerpt from the book: I come over to them with my glass. Gutalin grabs me by the coat, sits me down at their table, and says, “Sit down, Red! Sit down, servant of Satan! I love you. Let us weep over the sins of humanity—weep in despair!” “Let us weep,” I say. “Swallow the tears of sin.” “Because the day is nigh,” proclaims Gutalin. “Because the pale horse has been saddled, and the rider has put a foot in the stirrup. And futile are the prayers of the worshippers of Satan. And only those who renounce him shall be saved. Thou, of human flesh, whom Satan has seduced, who play with his toys and covet his treasures—I tell thee, thou art blind! Awake, fools, before it’s too late! Stamp on the devil’s baubles!” Here he comes to an abrupt halt, as if forgetting what’s next. “Can I get a drink in this place?” he asks in a different voice. “Where am I? You know, Red, I got f

New poem up @ Off Course Literary Journal: 7th Proof https://www.albany.edu/offcourse/issue90/swihart_rex.html

The one thing that is very good in life today is death. There’s still room for improvement, it’s true. But I think of all those nineteenth-century deaths. The deaths of writers aren’t special deaths; they just happen to be described deaths. I think of Flaubert lying on his sofa, struck down – who can tell at this distance? – by epilepsy, apoplexy or syphilis, or perhaps some malign axis of the three. Yet Zola called it une belle mort – to be crushed like an insect beneath a giant finger. I think of Bouilhet in his final delirium, feverishly composing a new play in his head and declaring that it must be read to Gustave. I think of the slow decline of Jules de Goncourt: first stumbling over his consonants, the c’s turning to t’s in his mouth; then being unable to remember the titles of his own books; then the haggard mask of imbecility (his brother’s phrase) slipping over his face; then the deathbed visions and panics, and all night long the rasping breaths that sounded (his brother’s wo

 

We no longer believe that language and reality ‘match up’ so congruently – indeed, we probably think that words give birth to things as much as things give birth to words.

In Michigan for a bit. Mostly birds @ Mom's feeder, wood ducks down the road (very skittish and far away), and a few cranes in a nearby field.

Another poem (making three total now) -- Sevilla -- has been posted at Bookends Review. Very short. Thanks to Jordan Blum (editor) for his generosity in accepting my poems. http://thebookendsreview.com/2022/08/22/sevilla/ #rlswihart13 #poetry #thebookendsreview #sevilla

Surfbird @ White Point Beach in San Pedro. Lifer. Saw him the first time (out of three) and never again. Right in the middle of the Black Turnstones standing on one leg (hope the other one is tucked in).  #rlswihart13 #sanpedroca #whitepointbeach #birdsofinstagram #surfbirdsofamerica #surfbird #birdphotos #lifers #nature #poetry #beauty #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦

A new poem is up @ Bookends Review: Shelter Valley. The link is below but also in my bio. Please check it out.:) http://thebookendsreview.com/2022/08/12/shelter-valley/ #rlswihart13 #bookendsreview #sheltervalley #newpoetry #poetry #rlswihart #nature #poetry

Saw several Spotted Sandpipers this morning @ White Point, but none as trim & spotted as this beauty (the backdrop isn't bad either).  #rlswihart13 #sanpedroca #whitepointbeach #sandpipersofinstagram #spottedsandpiper #nature #naturephotography #birdphotography #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦

At this point Mr. Golyadkin very appropriately remembered a novel he had read long ago in which the heroine, in precisely similar circumstances, signaled to Alfred by tying a pink ribbon to her window. But now, at night, in the climate of Petersburg, famous for its dampness and unreliability, a pink ribbon was hardly appropriate and, in fact, was utterly out of the question.

 "I can't talk much, and have never learnt to embellish my speech with literary graces. On the other hand, I cat, Krestyan Ivanovitch; on the other hand, I act, Krestyan Ivanovitch."

Couple of new poems -- Three Pieces and Second Time -- are currently up at Otoliths. Hope you'll check 'em out. https://the-otolith.blogspot.com/2022/06/r-l-swihart.html?m=1 #rlswihart13 #poetry #otoliths #threepieces #secondtime #readmorepoetry2022

Before all things I hastened to the Carità. I had found in Palladio's works that he had planned a monastic building here, in which he intended to represent a private residence of the rich and hospitable ancients. The plan, which was excellently drawn, both as a whole and in detail, gave me infinite delight, and I hoped to find a marvel. Alas! scarcely a tenth part of the edifice is finished. However, even this part is worthy of that heavenly genius. There is a completeness in the plan, and an accuracy in the execution, which I had never before witnessed. One ought to pass whole years in the contemplation of such a work. It seems to me that I have seen nothing grander, nothing more perfect, and I fancy that I am not mistaken.

In the church of the Eremitani I have seen pictures by Mantegna, one of the older painters, at which I am astonished. What a sharp, strict actuality is exhibited in these pictures! It is from this actuality, thoroughly true, not apparent, merely and falsely effective, and appealing solely to the imagination, but solid, pure, bright, elaborated, conscientious, delicate, and circumscribed—an actuality which had about it something severe, credulous, and laborious; it is from this, I say, that the later painters proceeded (as I remarked in the pictures of Titian), in order that by the liveliness of their own genius, the energy of their nature illumined at the same time by the mind of the predecessors, and exalted by their force, they might rise higher and higher, and elevated above the earth, produce forms that were heavenly indeed, but still true. Thus was art developed after the barbarous period.

How the Basilica of Palladio looks by the side of an old castellated kind of a building, dotted all over with windows of different sizes (whose removal, tower and all, the artist evidently contemplated),—it is impossible to describe—and besides I must now, by a strange effort, compress my own feelings, for, I too, alas! find here side by side both what I seek and what I fly from.

It causes us so agreeable a sensation to occupy ourselves with what we can only half do, that no person ought to find fault with the dilettante, when he is spending his time over an art which he can never learn; nor blame the artist if he chooses to pass out over the border of his own art, and amuse himself in some neighboring field.

Relationships are like chemical reactions: Her own position in Edward’s affection, Charlotte thought she could soon recover; and she settled it all, and laid it all out before herself so sensibly that she only strengthened herself more completely in her delusion, as if it were possible for them to return within their old limits,—as if a bond which had been violently broken could again be joined together as before.

Yellow-crowned Night Herons (I've never shot them in water before). Morning in Brookhurst Marsh. About one week ago.  #rlswihart13 #huntingtonbeach #brookhurstmarsh #heronsofinstagram #yellowcrownednightheron #nightheron #nature #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2022 #quadrantmagazine #ukraine #tgif 🇺🇦

“Now then,” interposed Edward, “till we see all this with our eyes, we will look upon the formula as an analogy, out of which we can devise a lesson for immediate use. You stand for A, Charlotte, and I am your B; really and truly I cling to you, I depend on you, and follow you, just as B does with A. C is obviously the captain, who at present is in some degree withdrawing me from you. So now it is only just that if you are not to be left to solitude, a D should be found for you, and that is unquestionably the amiable little lady, Ottilie. You will not hesitate any longer to send and fetch her.”

Northern Red Bishop @ Santa Ana River in OC (between Gisler & Adams). Best shot of the morning (angling down into the green riverbed through chain link fence). Will go back for more.:) #rlswihart13 #orangecounty #oc #santaanariver #greenrivers #redbishopsofinstagram #northernredbishop #nature #photography #birds #notjustanybird #beauty #poetry #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦

Two new poems in Quadrant Magazine July-Aug: "Next Good Read" and "This Side." Unfortunately you'd have to subscribe (read online and/or download the PDF). I should also like to acknowledge Mr. Barry Spurr, Poetry Editor @ Quadrant. He has been kind to my work. https://quadrant.org.au/magazine/ #rlswihart13 #poetry #nextgoodread #thisside #quadrantmagazine #readmorepoetry2022

Peregrine Fledglings @ San Pedro. The early days: still practicing flapping. #rlswihart13 #sanpedroca #pointfermin #peregrinefalcons #fledgling #falconsofinstagram #nature #beauty #youth #poetry #readmorepoetry2022 #ukraine 🇺🇦