Five Branch Tree




  • [ Landscape at Dusk ; Vincent van Gogh (1885) ]......










  • One evening when we were lounging in his apartment in a relaxed mood, sniffing a little ether, Charles Baudelaire said to me: ?You know, everybody has seen rain falling?most people have, at one time or another, actually noticed it.?

    I agreed with a chuckle. He continued: ?You know, I think we can be fairly confident that it has been raining, on and off, for a very long time!?

    Having said this, he collapsed on the chaise-lounge, in a veritable paroxysme; but as always, there was a tinge, a definite tinge of bitterness in his merriment.

    ?It would be absurd to imagine,? he said, ?that rain could ever have behaved in any way different from that which we observe today??

    After a moment?s crystalline silence our conversation drifted to other topics? the day?s gossip, the inexhaustible genius of Edgar Poe. But when we stood on the fire escape, taking leave, he gazed over my left shoulder into some indefinable distance or abyss and said, almost dreamily: ?It is forever washing the substance of the land into the sea.?

                -- Rain ; Anselm Hollo









  • Air, to Dream In
    --Anselm Hollo 
    Leave it, leave it  
    ..........behind the dark
    ..........window the owls
    ..........calling out to each other
    ..........my voice to you
    ....................................only heard
    ..........there in the dark
    ..........treetops of the sea 
    ...............red the moon rose
    ...............cooled off shrunk
    ...............to a coin in the blue 
    alone....it is if it is
    a poem for you









  • The Great Tree ; Leonard Baskin (1962)].......










  • Wednesday morning last week, in an early morning west window and between the dense crowns of two red maples, I saw the fully turned visage of the blood moon sitting inclusive like a wild Buddha and seemingly bound to the station of human gravity. The lunar ghost we typically recognize in the silver spheres had been replaced with a silent gatherer of all our pulsing reflections- earthen bestiary of sepia, symbiont observer to the wax and wane of life.  Minutes later though.... gone beyond, elsewhere. Replaced with the daily beacons of fragile bedroom lamps and kitchen lights. Continuing stories of hunger, school, work, play; varied life experiences until the elderly slide into personal timelessness. A few days later, I came across the following from Kenneth Rexroth?s poem 'The Lights in the Sky are Stars", in which he describes his family's observation of a blood moon eclipse some 60 years earlier:

    A blowing night in late fall,
    The moon rises with a nick
    In it. All day Mary has
    Been talking about the eclipse.
    Every once in a while I
    Go out and report on the
    Progress of the earth's shadow.
    When it is passing the half,
    Marthe and Mary come out
    And we stand on the corner
    In the first wisps of chilling
    Fog and watch the light go out.
    Streamers of fog reach the moon,
    But never quite cover it.
    We have explained with an orange,
    A grapefruit, and a lamp, not
    That we expect a four
    Year old child to understand -
    Just as a sort of ritual
    Duty. But we are surprised
    'The earth's shadow is like blood,'
    She says. I tell her the Indians
    Called an eclipse blood on the moon.
    'Is it all the blood on the earth
    Makes the shadow that color?'
    She asks. I do not answer.