Meditations in Fast Times: 16. let sunrise break through fog

Note to Readers: Now that I am nearly half way through, I wanted to say a little something about what this series of posts is all about. “Meditations in Fast Times” is a devotional writing experiment for the Season of Lent. Each day during the season, I am writing a poem as a meditation on, taking as my inspiration and intertextual basis, T.S. Eliot’s “Four Quartets”, as well as incorporating the daily office, current events, and other readings—some the same as those Eliot used while composing his seminal work, others from my own readings. The intertextual approach Eliot used in his writing could be cryptic, as he was alluding to many other writings, as well as personal experiences; the average person would find annotations helpful, but he did not annotate the work. A few scholars have made attempts to do so; I have worked on my own annotations. While the style of Eliot’s writing was considered “modern,” “post-symbolist”, even “neoclassical,” it must be said that all writing, throughout time, has carried subject, rhythm, tone and trope, forward from the past. Eliot did not invent intertextuality; it can be said that every text is a product of intertextuality. One of the ways that we draw listeners or readers in to whatever new idea (if any) we might have is by offering familiar context from the past, much like making a hat-rack available, on which we can hang something familiar and then introduce something new, or ponder what never changes.

                16.

let sunrise break through fog,
that there be joy in the morning!
yet, even so, even so,

for though the flowers bloom
under beaming majesty,
there is continual cause for wonder.

let me ponder my flight
that fonder I might grow
of this childhood,

for what and for why
did this seed burst forth
into bloom?

let me consider
self as emerging
from some deep interior,

for it must be
that there is every
purpose under the sun,

let me seek mine own,
attempt to outgrow
the stories of my youth,

for it is true
that most being seeks
to find completion in purpose

let me therefore accept
the world and
serve it,

for surely it is all life
that being supports
and, mutually supported, is;

let me therefore give thanks that
being is and teaches continually
through osmotic exchange

for what purpose, then,
if not to fold and enfold,
to mix and mingle?

© 2014 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

La Habana, en versos libres: IV. Dias Quatro

Mi título al nacer puso en mi cuna,

El sol que al cielo consagró mi frente.

Yo sólo sé de amor. ~ José Martí, from “Vino de Chianti”

The maracas bird
and the electric one, as well,
rattled the sleepers awake,
but no rush, this morning,
just mission:
writings of José Martí.

Verses simple and complex,
exploring the human connection;
Annette and I had planned,
already, for months,
this excursion,
though we did not know
what being here would be like.

No hurry, this morning;
time for breakfast,
time for coffee,
a decent cup—
I’ve got it covered;
I’ll make my own,
with help from
Our Lady of Seattle.

First, however,
to the cadeca queue,
for old world monetary transactions
in silver fiats:
heroes are moneda nacional;
monuments are for the touristas.

No credit, no cheques,
it is cash, cash, cash.

The lines start before opening,
 and the guard lets each in
one at a time;
if you are lucky, the cadeca
is on the shady side of the street
—even so, the ladies
have their fans out,
beating them furiously.

Cool inside;
a long day for tells,
even with the long lunch break.

Once at the counter,
I present Canadian Dollars,
much better in exchange
than the taxed American.

I ask for Convertible Pesos,
then, further, for moneda nacional;

the teller smiles,
thinking perhaps:
la yuma,
she will spread her money
among The People.

Traveler’s alert:
count and organize your money
while still inside the cadeca;
safely stow it away before you leave.

We (Annette, Michael and I)
make our way along Obispo
toward the sea,
stopping at the guayabera shops
and bookstores,
but the stores do not yield Martí,
at least, not in the forms we desire.

We continue forward,
to Plaza de Armas;
nestled in the shade of the trees,
the portrait artist wanders,
tracing the image of Michael
across a clean white page,
and it is then we discover Martí.

Ah, Martí,
no mere revolutionary;
the vision and memory,
the myth, even,
of a romantic man
who saw the truth,
that was all around to be seen—
the corruption, the inequity,
the prices paid, and by whom
—and felt as powerless
as any patriot might
at the old world’s stranglehold
on the new.

Martí,
the revolutionary of love—
before learning and liberty,
the greatest of these is love,
amor con amor se paga,
love must precede and supercede
all action that love,
like the sun,
inspires and sustains.

Martí,
the friend
who laid down his life
for his friends,
but those three bullets
did not end the revolution;
the seemingly unfinished monument
can only testify to your continuing legacy,
as do the books we carry away.

We cut across to
Plaza de la Catedral,
to see the music cast into stone,
and to pray in air-conditioned chapel
for reconciliation,
for healing,
and for peace
among the nations.

Chicken sandwiches,
with beer and coffee
at nearby El Patio,
are surprisingly good,
though the service is slow
—we are there at the sleepy time of day.

After paying la cuenta,
we retrace our steps,
picking our way over the cobblestones,
dug up and piled everywhere,
making way for new cable
to modernize and expand
the ancient electrics,
returning to Hotel Plaza,
quickly passing through
the district of fortune tellers,
casting cards or cowries;
our immediate future
is already known:

we must quickly prepare
for our first concert.

We assemble in the lobby,
then the bus appears on cue
to take us to Teatro Nacional de Cuba,
where we meet Ensemble Vocal Luna
to launch our mutual life’s blood:
love by way of song.

We sang apart and together,
braiding our vibrations,
sending them out
over Plaza de la Revolución,
to meet the memory of Martí,
honored in his monument,
bringing one circle to a close
with the sharing of Guantanamera.

Later, under a full moon,
standing at the parapet of la Cabaña,
as the canon is fired,
seeing the skyline of Habana
beyond el Malecón,
I am reminded
that beauty can be found
everywhere
we are willing
to make the effort
to see it,
to engage it,
and to be inseparable from it.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen

La Habana, en versos libres: II. Dias Dos

Soon after the late night cabaret,
sooner than sleep, a mere dream,
sooner than rest can hold
the slumbering heart,
morning arrives.

Few people realize
there is a bird
that makes a sound
very like maracas,
but there it is,
in the second floor courtyard
of the Hotel Plaza,
making sure all sleepers awake.

Some of us stagger upstairs,
where breakfast and sun can greet us,
but not coffee.

Then we run
down the very same streets
as yesterday,
to a small restaurant;
we are here to learn
a truer nature of song:
song is
rhythm is
dance is
música folklórica
is one,
singular,
divine act
--this is, of course,
a revelation.

Afterward,
rushing to find lunch,
with all the people
rushing to find lunch;
rushing to find water
with all the people
rushing to find water
--these take much of the day;
I prefer the agua sin gas,
por favor.

A smaller walking tour,
to find reliable shops
and cadecas
takes longer than expected,
but we should all know better
--we are on Habana time.

Rushing into rehearsal,
we reinhabit
our soul journey songs.

The Spirit of Possibility
flies through one open portal
and out another,
a blessing on our efforts;

She is a songbird, of course,
and all the windows of Cuba
are open to Her.

The compositor de la música
has come to hear us
as we sing his music;
he is very formal,
but he did accept
our dinner invitation.

A shower of watery joy
bursts upon the terrace
and on all the city,
when the practice is done,
but we must run again,
to dress for evening
and catch the tour bus
that will take us
to meet our evening plans.

Under gathering storm clouds,
and rumbling thunder
immediately overhead,
the tour bus swallowed us up,
just as the rain begins again.

To Casa del Amistad
we go, for more,
but no mere music,
greeted as we are by
Orquesta Enrique Jorrin,
the legacy left by
the inventor of the cha cha cha.

A storm ensues,
perhaps a sign
that Changó
has joined the party.

Dinner, chicken or fish,
attracts a few stray cats,
who become beneficiaries
of a surreptitious largesse.

The ubiquitous mojitos,
followed by agua con gas,
Cocacola and bottles of Havana Club,
mix as you will.

We sang and danced
under storming skies,
we ate and drank;
the best parties
are those where
the stray cats are fed and
the servers also dance
to the magic of the music.

The storm passed,
the sunset was glorious,
and so was our evening,
our exchange of joy
in celebration
of musical meetings,
however fleeting.

© 2013 by Elisabeth T. Eliassen