L'aura del Campo

Campanile and carillon, the bells.

Winter: 7 Mulk (February 13)

TREASURE OF THE DAY

isnotmeanttobead
mired

STOP

itoldyoutosto
preading


Neat! It takes a minute to read this poem and then, it makes sense.

Actually, there is reason within what first seems to be nonsense. The line breaks are all within words, the second line is always shorter and all end at a word break.

Bluestone moved this, so for the entire poem, Don't Read, look in:

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2006-02-13
morning, 26 degrees. 53 in San Diego, CA.

Early this morning, someone said they'd like 78 degrees year-round. I suggested San Diego. Nice climate. Big city, though. Today it will be in the 70s there. Here it may even hit 60. We'll see, depends on which way the wind blows.

SENSED

Bud Light bottle cap. pocked concrete walk; cobalt glass; shredded oak-leaf; parking citation slip; blue cup; Miller High Life 12 oz. bottle; 4 black garbage bags; garden shovel; sections of white picket fence; white down feather.

Notice the number of abandoned human artifacts. Without them there wouldn't be much that's new to see. Winter here is quiet. Life snoozes for 3 months. The cold dry takes away the smells. The only touch is the cold wind on the face. And sounds? Mostly those made by humans or their machines. In the country, one could stare at the withered grass and see or hear nothing but the withered grass. There is a sense of peace in those spaces empty of humans.

Sketch from yesterday:

Winter reflections of the bells

Only a tendril of wind can find
me here, hidden in this tower corner,
surrounded by the muffled echoes
of the bells.

Below me faint pink marble glows.
On walls the dead names etched
in black. Bronze doors open
on a day of sun, the playful romp of
barking dogs.

Above the bells play on:
the prelude, allemande, bourée,
the courante, gavotte of Visée,
a minuet, a sarabande, the
final gigue.

This tower of memory, the bells,
presides above the lengthened shades
as I become a giant, forty-three
foot tall, before the set of sun, this
vesper hour.

Hatsumi and her papillon
quick pass me by, she says, 'too cold',
muffled in her coat and scarf. The notes
rain down on her way home, past
freezing ripples of the pond that
touch the ice.

The wind picks up. My shadow dims. Yet,
down in Potter's pond, reflections of the
bells play on. [162.753]

The campanile (bell tower) with its carillon (the actual instrument of the bells) is well known throughout this region and is the one building on the University of Kansas campus recognized by everyone.

Concerts are at 5 on Sunday evenings during session. Also, Wednesdays when the weather is nicer. The bells also strike the quarter hours. Apromptu miniconcerts can happen at anytime as the students practice. Once, legend has it, the students let themselves in at night after a heavy snow. Must've been magical to sled by moonlight to the ringing of the bells.

Surrounded by grassy slopes and trees, with Marvin's Grove on one side, and Potter's Lake on the other, the campanile hovers over the football stadium and is the centerpiece of graduation. There are pictures here:

http://www.carillon.ku.edu/otherphotos.html

This is Professor Berghout who has been so supportive of my efforts to write poetry:

http://www.carillon.ku.edu/berghout.html

2006-02-13
afternoon, sunny, 58 degrees. 70 in Lindsborg, Kansas!

Ŧĥē ßëŋ and Tor mention the problem with TIME. Others too struggle here at WDC to find the time to write, edit, read and review. I told Tor to go fishing! and meant it . A mental vacation, however one can arrange that, is needed by most of us. There is nothing to write about if we are not experiencing life and no time to write it down if we don't set aside some time for writing. (I scribble in notepads) It's more than discipline or time-management, as good as those are for some people. Sometimes, doing 'nothing' is what's needed to clear out the cobwebs. I guess we'd all be happier if we felt less guilty.

So I'm a writer, so what. As Prof. Berghout mentioned yesterday (we were talking about house-keeping), some things are not that important. As an artist she has her priorities.

And now mine ... beautiful, sunny and warming up! Oh to be in Lindsborg today! I'm outta here, as soon as I can ...

2006-02-13
late afternoon, 62 degrees. 59 in Garnett, KS and 27 in Lewiston, NY.

I was thinking of Nathan Clark. He's 27 today. He stayed with me when he was 19. So many years ago ... I almost remember the day he was born. 1979 and I was in South Carolina at the Louis Gregory Bahá'í Institute in Hemenway. That's where I first met my friend Kevin Wright. He pulled me back from the edge of despair. Wouldn't be here if it weren't for Kev.

As for Nathan, his family was from Lewiston, New York and Garnett, Kansas. Parts of Lewiston can be a little snooty but he lived out in the country. Garnett is a town of retired farmers in a rural county. Brian Kummer here is related to some of the Clarks in Anderson County. Possibly to Nathan himself. Small world ... wish I could find Nathan.

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