The Grapevine Art & Soul Salon: Presentations

I have always respected the god or spirit
in places, plants, and creatures of the world:
easy to see in dogs or toads, rabbits or snakes
each one clearly representing itself
by being as only it can be.
That is true of trees and plants as well
and bodies of water, from mill ponds to vast oceans.
Insects, clouds, even vegetables sway and dance for me
and let me know they know I can see them.
It is not so for many people, and when someone
asks me if I believe in God, I always have the urge
to answer any but the one that holds humans in
higher regard than the rest of creation.

PRESENTATIONS: CHARLES KNOTT

BUZZARDS, TOTEMISM AND REINCARNATION

My father was wrong about many things, but every once in awhile he got things exactly right. For example, when my mother complained to him that he did not spend enough time visiting my brother's grave in Westview Cemetery, he replied, "We'll spend plenty of time there. Don't worry about it." And he was correct: they haven't been anywhere else but Westview Cemetery for the past 35 years.

Another thing he got right was buying a beautiful property that nobody wanted. It is just under 8 acres, and in the center of the property is a wonderful, extremely old, large farmhouse. In fact, it is a converted stagecoach stop from the 19th century, and he and my mother were kind enough to will it all to me when they died. It is both a curse and a blessing: a blessing because it is so good I can't leave it at times when I want to go bouncing off into meaningless wandering around the world, and owning it is bad because maintaining it is quite a chore and I'd rather be doing something else. But, on balance, I am extremely grateful to have it because sometimes unexpectedly meaningful things can occur here. For example:

At one corner of our place there is a very old red barn. We housed a couple of horses there for awhile, including a beautiful white Arabian stallion. Then a recalcitrant, fractious, obstinate, rebellious, unruly, wayward, contrary, contumacious and defiant neighbor evoked a city ordinance and forced the horses' removal. I am happy to report that very neighbor is now also in Westview Cemetery for the long term, if you know what I mean. At my age, I have outlived a lot of miscreants, and using that patient, indirect strategy to express enmity has happily prevented me from offending the law. A major achievement toward avoiding run-ins with the law is learning not to act directly on being provoked. But, I digress.

A meaningful event occurred some weeks ago when, as I drove onto the property, I noticed several buzzards had moved into the barn. I was horrified and panicky. Buzzards give me the willies! I decided I would get rid of them. But how?

I already knew a few things about buzzards: one, they are harmless. I draw great comfort from this knowledge because they are large, powerful animals, and if they were aggressive birds of prey, they could be dangerous indeed. My shuddering queasiness at the sight of them is based merely on their general appearance plus the bizarre Dracula-like gait with which they walk or run across the ground when they are speeding up to take flight or touching down to land. I was appalled to find they had decided to become my tenants.

I reasoned with myself: Charles, these birds make a major contribution toward keeping our environment clean; they don't harm humans or other animals. They are a major, important part of nature's plan. They know their place and they stay in it. You should be grateful to them. You have no right to be offended by anything in nature, et cetera.

These logical arguments could not touch the revulsion in my soul. After being unable to drive them away by chasing them around the yard in the car and blowing the horn at them, and being the owner of various pistols, rifles and shotguns and no slouch when it comes to using them, I decided I would just shoot these ugly birds and have done with it.

But wait! Killing a buzzard is against the law, and I am, above all, law-abiding. I must not let a buzzard's mere appearance provoke me into breaking the law. And what about my profound love for every animal on the planet, except for certain photographs I have seen of monsters of the deep sea and for, let's say, a goddamn buzzard? Anyway, I'm not saying I can't be a "get-out-of-my-yard" reprobate, but even then I am a law-abiding reprobate. Plus, I don't like disposing of animal carcasses. Suppose I went on a killing spree and had a half dozen buzzard carcasses to dispose of. What a horror that would be. Talk about the willies! So, what to do?

Noise. Loud, loud noises. This being 4 July, I am reminded that the legal justification for selling fireworks is "agricultural use." Fireworks, technically, are permitted in this world as a method of ridding one's property of nuisance animals. But I had no fireworks. I do, however, have a 12 gauge pump shotgun which makes a lot of noise when you fire it. I reasoned that the shotgun has a very short killing range and that if I would step back 75 yards from these bloody buzzards and fire off a few rounds, I would accomplish two purposes: I would make a hell of a lot of noise and, at that range, spray them harmlessly with a few pellets of buckshot so that I literally would reach out and touch them and make it personal, so to speak. This I did, and, incidentally, broke the law in doing so, but I had to do something and, it being the Fourth of July and lots of firecrackers going off around me, with not a few gunshots mixed in, I figured, correctly, that I could get away with firing six rounds from my shotgun. And I did, but to no effect whatsoever.

Their reaction? Their response reminded me of two other traits they possess: they are stubborn and they are fearless. They shrugged off my artillery barrage by looking at me quizzically and then their eyes took on expressions of pity as they looked at each other and shook their heads sadly. They seemed to ask one another:

"Does he not know that we are accustomed to standing on the side of the road where cars pass very close at dangerously high speeds, and that our nerves are such that we remain casually focused on the roadkill de jour? And does he imagine we cannot sense that he is not coming any closer with that gun because he doesn't want a dead buzzard any more than he wants a live one? Let's forgive him and get back to conferring with one another about ways of decorating our barn. And, by the way, would one of us like to ask him to cut the grass around the barn the next time he gets out that big John Deere lawnmower he's so proud of? After all, we're expecting guests in a few days, and we don't want our lawn to be an embarrassment."

I knew I'd been had and that I might as well stop feeling hostility toward these nonchalant buzzards who, at any rate, responded to me with total equanimity. In an act of psychological judo, they were inviting me to swallow my own poison in hopes that they would die. They calmly regarded my seething for a few moments, and then went back to the wake they had been holding in advance contemplation of their next meal. Obviously, I was nothing more than a mean-spirited and impotent boy who was neither aware of, nor sufficiently respectful of their God given and God blessed rights to perform their ancient daily behaviors.

When I drove past them the next day, one of the vultures gave me a sort of "turkey strut": he expanded his wings to the fullest and proudly looked me in the face, as if to say, "I will preside over your mortality, and you know it. There is nothing you can do about it."

Then he got all metaphysical with me: He said, "The Lord of Hosts is on my side and always has been. You, in contrast, have always had a dubious metaphysical standing in the divine order of things. Having a small brain, I am unable to make bad decisions and cannot violate the Divine Will. You, in contrast, with your big brain, make all sorts of bad decisions. Being at one with Nature, I am more pious than you. In rejecting nature, you're being neurotic at the very least and, at worst, an offense to the God who made you."

Over the next few weeks, I started looking at them differently. For one thing, they are beautiful in flight. They soar and ride the thermals like eagles and, although their diet of offal is indeed revolting, at least, unlike the beautiful hawks I admire wholeheartedly, they do not murder the living birds and rabbits that give life to the four-acre front yard that I love so much. They are content graciously to live on life's leftovers and pose no threat to anyone, man or beast.

Damn it to hell! They are working their way into my heart!

Today I sat outdoors in my backyard and heard a rustling noise on the roof of the house. I looked up and saw (you guessed it) a large turkey vulture looking down at me with its wings fully expanded. Then he looked away so I could study and presumably admire his profile, and then he turned away completely, which was either a show of contempt, or a show of trust, or perhaps just a sign that something more interesting than me was happening in some other direction.

Then it occurred to me that this creature I had treated so contemptuously, by adorning our house at its highest point and extending his wings protectively over our beloved domain, was offering to be our totem animal. And how is that offering a precious gift? Perhaps this noble bird is offering us the gift of living just as he does: amid safety, peace and plenty and in accordance with God's laws of the natural world. So, the bird is a messenger?

That brings to mind that it was a bird, a dove as we all know from Sunday School, that told Mother Mary she was impregnated by the Holy Ghost. The Annunciation, it is called. A gnostic saying goes as follows: What good is the angel's message [dove's message, bird's message] to Marie, if he bring not the same message to me? Was I being given a message from God by a buzzard? Mother Mary rated an elegant dove; I rated a lowly buzzard. But what right have I to decide the buzzard is lowly? Can a buzzard be as good an angel as a dove? Do I imagine I am too good to receive my revelation/insight/annunciation from a buzzard? Perhaps God loves the buzzard as much as He loves the dove. The Ancient Mariner, in Coleridge's RIME, refers to the God who "made and loveth all."

Tibetans have a festival known as "sky burial' dedicated to these birds. Performed correctly, it is said, this ritual guarantees reincarnation. A vulture is considered to be a Dakini, a Tibetan angel.

Speaking of reincarnation and buzzards,William Faulkner said if he could die and come back as any animal of his choice, he would choose to be a buzzard because a buzzard has no enemies and can eat anything! Not a bad deal when you compare the life of claw and fang that other animals face in nature. I wonder why God favored this bird in this important way? And what kind of karma must a man accumulate to be so fortunate as to be himself reincarnated as a buzzard? Might I be able yet to accumulate enough good deeds to win this destiny?

I hope so. I sincerely hope so.

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Fascinating video at this link:

Buzzard in Flight

PRESENTATIONS: BARBARA KNOTT

PULSE OF THIS PLACE

SUMMER

The blue heron is back!
my son called out to me
and I rose
from the bed to go out
and see what he saw.

What all was out there?
calling me away
from what was inside the house
where I felt a brooding residue of unlived life
despondency, despair
full of tortuous thoughts that spoke
more of no way
than the way to fly again, to fly like the bird
on the lookout for nourishment
in streams and ponds
including the one in front of the house
here in the midst of eight acres
filled with ancient and ever-renewing greenery
scents of petrichor and sweet magnolia
Smaller birds galore
are chortling their myriad sounds
about and around the very porch
that holds me now
watching the magnolia blossoms
nodding their consent or agreement
or whatever it is that approves the day
and waiting still to see the bird that
brought me out of inward blues
to seek the shining sun.

Now my son and I are overflown
by the shadow-casting bird
between us and the sun
shading us and our canine friend Bijon
who is having long thoughts
head between paws poised on chair arm.

The heron reminds me
that I am I
on the same road less traveled by
like Robert Frost, still waiting to see
what makes all the difference.

Contrast a sound: the horror of the trash truck
grabbing, snatching, shaking.
Shriek and crash of heavy metal
making not music but noise bam bang clang
stimulating a sort of sympathy
for what we've thrown away in pieces
now to be torn again and mixed:
food scraps and paper and metal cans
casually tossed into the same garbage bag
now slung into a tank to be mercilessly
mashed and squashed and buried, never to rise again
rendering the ground where they haul it
useless for growth of new life.

What was that about the original big bang?
That one was about the birth of a universe.
This wham, clang, bang may be about the death of it.
The trash truck is a reminder that humans
these days are not doing well in disposing
of trashy, confused and contaminating behavior.
But when we leave the media behind and go outside
and wait for the trash truck to vanish in sight and sound
we may be reminded again of our natural pulsing life
and know that even a landfill can experience rebirth.

AUTUMN

Ah! Today it is autumn, and I sit enraptured
by the feeling of warmth coming through my hands
from a cup filled with coffee freshly brewed
this cool morning and brought with me to the front porch
of our house that opens out to a view of ancient trees
that have been growing in this soil for two or three centuries.
Naked of leaves after greening all summer
they are showing now their wooden colors.
Some, like the sycamores with white trunks, drop their leaves
as they dance in the wind, and others, like the cedars
that have evergreen securely planted in their genes,
ruggedly hold on to their color. Smiling at the thought
of green genes, I notice the cup my hands are hugging
is made of Georgia clay by W. G. Gordy in Cartersville, 1990.
Three fingers of my right hand fit perfectly around
the handle while my thumb takes a top position
with my little finger at the bottom
to steady the round brown container
streaked by the potter's fingers with gold
in subtle, liquid looking movements
creating just the right shape and size
for human hands savoring warmth.
For me. Today. On the porch.
Feeling the pulse of this place.

Birdbath brimming with water
and the stonecarved face of a dreaming girl
wishing perhaps for just the right gesture from a god
caressing her into sentience
fullbodied and redblooded, moving and able
to respond to the world she lives in
when the god comes to give her life.
Even in her reverie, birds come and go
drinking her in, grateful no doubt
for the water carrier who dozes among them
sturdy, steady, always there.
Beneath her bowl, another granite girl on the ground
looks skyward, perhaps to see
if Zeus or Dionysos or Pan will flirt with her today.

The grunt of a bullfrog on one side of the pond
sets up a chorus on the other: Uh huh! Uh huh! Uh huh!
Their symphony greets the day
with its breezes wafting through the trees all around
loud enough to make even the traffic sound
modest and subdued when it sets out to take over the morning.
May the Creator God grant us a few hours each day
to keep the motors at bay while we enjoy the quiet
unfolding of a few remaining sweet-scented magnolia blossoms
bright and white and stunning on the swaying branches.

Beside the pond below the sloping ground stands
a sycamore tree, age 150 years at least.
My mind adapts a Christmas song.
Sycamore, O sycamore! How I love thy branches.

Nearby, between tree and pond
a magnolia skirts the dry grass, displaying
her beautiful Irish green prom dress
among the loveliest ever worn
by girl or tree.
On the other side of her, the pond ripples
with soft, slow grace
flowing up to all the trees around it:
more sycamores and magnolias, along with cedars
and, beyond the pond, a slowly rising field
of tiny yellow dandelions.

This yard and pond and all the trees
hollies and pecans included
have stood the test of time
two or three time lengths longer than my years.
Among them, I feel a richness beyond measure
in the natural world, a strong sense
of God's presence in creation.

Highpitched gurgling, thrumming and trilling of tree frogs
and the deeper bass accents of bullfrogs, like a chorus
of wrinkled angels celebrating the turning of darkness to light
of light to dark, and on this morning, the coming of rain.
Intermittently, the soft humming of crickets.
Steady monotone of an occasional woodpecker muttering
among the lavish spread of trees around house and pond
and in the back, a lot that once held horses in a field of grass
that fed them, now thickly populated
by pine trees some 70 feet tall.

Multivoiced birdsong around and about
up close and far out

Chewee Chewee Chewee is one familiar chirp.

This morning I see four robin redbreasts
walking around, living closer to the soil than most birds.
I hear they build their nests on the ground
and have seen a mama dragging one wing
across the ground away from her nest
distracting a wingless wouldbe predator
by pretending to be wounded until her nest is safe.
Then she saves herself by winging it.

Robins stroll and skip on the ground
the vast lawn full of seeds enough to satisfy their needs.
The higher flyers have birdfeeders to lure them
near the porch where we can watch as they wait
as families in line to feed.

Several bird families wait on the ground
for another family to finish feeding one at a time as others
wait their turn on tree limbs above the birdfeeder.
Civilized, all taking turns
like the robins approaching the birdbath.
One at a time flies up to the round of stones
and hops up onto the granite bowl
where the sculpted face of the girl from ancient Greece
emerges still sleeping from the stone.
No doubt the birdsong and small splashing
will wake her someday or let her dream on
for more centuries than we can count.

Nearby on the roof and ground are squirrels
that resume searching for seeds in the brief interlude
when bird families have flown.

Raindrops now on magnolia leaves
long dry on the ground
from falling in fall and lying there
through winter, spring and perhaps another fall.
Ground has guarded the great rootedness for 200 years.
It is as a corner tree of the house.

Turreet! Turreet! Turreet!

Another bird arrives to wait patiently
in the hickory tree at just the right distance
to be civil to those feeding now.

Nearby on the roof and on the ground are squirrels
that resume snatching seeds in the brief interludes
when bird families have flown.

Hummingbirds know how to suspend themselves in midair
to beak the juice in the feeder
hung there by their human friends
who long to see these tiny bolts of charm
with rapidly fanning wings supporting their appetite
their love of sugar and water and the color red
deliberately chosen for the feeder's tray.

Now and then, the pulse of the place includes a deer
that, crossing the wide lawn, moves toward the pond
then turns its head toward the bark of a dog
about one-tenth the size of the deer.
The fierce little dog, if not haltered, might respond
with a run that would reach the running deer posthaste.
What would happen then?
A friendly look from the large one might calm
the small one's desire to tear it to pieces
an urge bred in his bones along with some
of the most gentle and loving ways ever to appear in an animal
born of Pekingese and terrier and named Bijon
by his human named Charles who permanently rescued him
from a briar patch where he ran to escape
his four longlegged female littermates
and thus prolonged the blessing of his heartbeat
that then became part of the pulse of this place.

PRESENTATIONS: DIANNE SEAMAN

WINTER POEMS

It's September

Of course, the August clematis is fading.
Things bloom in their season
and fade according to an interior clock.
Growth, fullness, waning to withered petals.
Life cycles cannot be avoided.
Don't jam on the brake petal.
You'll only get dark smoke, obscuring the next turn.
Rhythmic rules for being and dissolving
are written in nature's code
and cocoons designed for liquid alchemy
prior to unfolding new wings
fly into the unknown season
foot off the brake.

Walking Through Bare Woods of Winter

Shed and tattered snakeskins hang behind me on bare branches.
Ahead, pale green specters of spring's promise
radiate a faint glow on tips of twigs.
Step by step I proceed toward that golden green veil.
An ephemeral embrace from a pocket of deep space
spins a benevolent cocoon around me.
In due time a new form will emerge
To fly higher than ever
On brilliantly lit gossamer wings of soul.

Black ice

Deception
Barely visible threat
Skids lives off their path.

Fire and ice

Trees aflame in ice
illuminated by the sun:
This solar blaze on ice covered branches
melts the soul's ice storm that has kept me frozen
and illumines the flame in me.

Snowfall at Dusk

Fields and sky blend:
heaven and earth united
in the presence of white
snowflakes illumined by a nearby light
dancing downward like a thousand falling stars.

Untitled

Snow covered hills with valleys
not in the shadow of death
but rather filled with white hope.
First we descend, then climb.
Both are essential
to reach the peaks
where crocus flowers
push through the frozen white snow.

Duckfall at Nightfall

Floating downward in tandem with snowflakes
large, soft dark winged droplets
appear suddenly out of white mists of a twilight sky
and join the silent choreography of winter
as they shift elements from air to water, barely a ripple.

Inner Winter

Interior windstorms leave my branches bare
stripping life of last season's leaves.
How much easier and naturally
the trees shed theirs
willing to stand in their bare
essential and unchangeable structure
until new life pushes from deep within.
The sap of faint evolutionary whispers
can be felt in my deepest roots.
Spring will come.
Just wait, like the trees.

The Fertile Void

Luxurious silence here.
Listen to the whispering across galaxies.
Hear throughout eternity.
Perceive your name etched in timeless sands
that never wash away in the ebb and flow of tides.
Sit long enough in silence, and the name is given to you
like a bell ringing in the cathedral of your heart.

Copyright 2021, Barbara Knott. All Rights Reserved.