Dialogue
and her funny expression
the way is borne between
two virgin sisters:
a line for little kings,
a line for little beggars.
if the way feels very long,
sometimes the truth
is this: turn yourself
around to see her face.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for neither
for the taker (lambanein)
(is) the balance (axios)
of equal grace (charitos ises)
// 234ξ
οὔτε γὰρ τῷ λαμβάνοντι χάριτος ἴσης ἄξιον
myth of a hermit crab
when, among strewn stones, the roar, sea-rubbled
coral, drubbed-featureless bones, by the vast
intelligence of salt-lung-water, currents, swells
and cycles of one planet to another
precious, semi-circle moon
when, of intertidal spine or ladder, a rambler up
and down the baking sand, the beach, which burns
my feet, the purge of undertows, the surging rips
and sneaker waves
behind, above, on wind a hunting wing
when, a shadow moving in, to halt
the camera, home, returns me to my knees
knuckled, imprints of gravel on red skin
engraved by seashell shards, held-back, worked-in
to kneeling, as if eons, there, to wait
for when, if ever, the sun can
be still enough to catch
the nestled-in extend
a tentative feeler, a tiny
bristled limb
when those barely let
light breathe or gills retreat
between the lens and
a shuttered eye-
stem
the how-less
greet
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but the loving (one)
would not urge (keleuein) you
toward all the loving (ones)
to hold (echein) this thinking-through (dianoia)
// 234β
οὐδ᾽ ἂν τὸν ἐρῶντα
πρὸς ἅπαντάς σε κελεύειν τοὺς ἐρῶντας
ταύτην ἔχειν τὴν διάνοιαν
//
🌗
rude wisdom
true story, when i was nine or ten
my father, at the time, sat me down
as fathers do, to read Plato’s Apology.
there had been a situation at school.
it was a public school and i was new.
it had to do with bullying and needing
to choose a side. well i guess a child
encounters force beside deliberation.
after i finished reading, he asked me
what Socrates would do. it was not
really a question. and i was no fool.
i said, but papa, i am not Socrates.
this morning, i woke up from a dream
about an oil spill. well the sign put forth.
it grew like coltsfoot in the broken step
where id removed an unbelonging one.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
well i guess (oimai)
// 234β
ἐγὼ μὲν οἶμαι
//
the daddys issue
some days like i become your magazine
some days like i become your loaded gun
these days it makes no difference which (oil spill)
yes i read your letter yesterday and all
the days before, your hollow men, your dump
truck spat into my bed, and im not sure
it got there but i wrote you on the third
to say, how dare you write me when you never
learn to read a single fucking word
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
whether id recommend (para-aineein
for you
to gratify
all
the not-loving (ones) (me erosi)
// 234β
εἰ ἅπασίν σοι παραινῶ τοῖς μὴ ἐρῶσι χαρίζεσθαι
//
oil spill
on genealogy
for when you’re here, have this of me. as time
lets go of us, a song escapes the circlet in
a stranger coming home; eventuality.
under covers of moonlight, the folding pages
yellowed in memory, a gnawing book-
worm spins the orphanage; mulberry leaves.
some shadows at a funeral see less,
and lesson me, nightmare and burnt-off limb.
to hold a hand in grace; fatherlessness.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
equally (isos)
if you would really ask (eroio)
me
// 234β
ἴσως
ἂν οὖν ἔροιό με
the self-guarding deliberation of one who wouldn't love
so, paedophilia is in the news again. or
ephebophilia, as the clarifiers say, making clear
nothing. and every soul in Athens seems
a perpetrator and a victim of the crime; i
have come to understand it as a spectrum.
the young, the young, we must protect the young;
who does and doesn’t say it is a creep. so where
might i protect them from the citizen? and where
might i protect them from the serpent of my tongue? if
here, rare and slithering and beautiful, it would insert itself
into your ear. into any nubile mind, and call it
education. once upon a time, a little fiction built
the beating heart of my self-government. all fallen
on the shell-shocked ears of popular abuse. all fallen
across the scattered pages of history.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
you
really
remember (memneso)
the things having been spoken (eremenon)
and (put) it into the heart (en-thumou)
that (on the one hand)
beloveds (hoi philoi)
warn (nouthetousin) (or put-in-mind)
lovers (erontas)
of the practice (epi-tedeumatos)
being (ontos)
bad (kakou)
and (on the other hand)
no one ever yet in the household (ton oikeion)
accused (emempsato)
the not-loving (me erosin)
of
through this
badly deliberating (bouleuein)
about themselves (peri eauton)
// 234β
σὺ οὖν τῶν τε εἰρημένων μέμνησο
καὶ ἐκεῖνο ἐνθυμοῦ
ὅτι τοὺς μὲν ἐρῶντας οἱ φίλοι νουθετοῦσιν
ὡς ὄντος κακοῦ τοῦ ἐπιτηδεύματος
τοῖς δὲ μὴ ἐρῶσιν οὐδεὶς πώποτε τῶν οἰκείων ἐμέμψατο
ὡς διὰ τοῦτο κακῶς βουλευομένοις περὶ ἑαυτῶν
myth of sea urchins
oh protecting self of fire, oh siren song
of dragon scales; by glass, a flashing wheel,
honed steel, and feathers through the scapula;
so eager grows her guardian of tears.
so cells divide an urchin by its need
for spine, for swimmers heart, for art. cut us
in half, and each retains their whole of holes.
consistency is pluripotency in love.
so ocean breathes, with grave authority.
and armor makes, re-wakes itself; fossils
desire; marine in-vertebrates our queer
anthropocene; our deeper keys, in blastomere.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and not those who
ceasing from desire (pauomenoi tes epi-thumias)
will seek a pretext (prophasin)
for hatred (echthra)
but those who
of ceased season (pausamenou tes horas)
will then display (epi-deiknumi)
excellence (arete)
of their own
// 234α
οὐδὲ οἵτινες παυόμενοι τῆς ἐπιθυμίας ἔχθρας πρόφασιν ζητήσουσιν
ἀλλ᾽ οἳ παυσαμένου τῆς ὥρας
τότε τὴν αὑτῶν ἀρετὴν ἐπιδείξονται
//
(plz dont miss
kate & tori references)
🌖
don’t drop by
tonight; to see you makes me dangerous.
an ember sleeps; you hide yourself.
every soldier in uniform is a suicide.
oh, my friend, don’t drop the grenade, don’t drop
the quiet words. wake me from clay at dawn.
your shoulder lights our temporary weight.
there’s revolution in the research of
a snail; your fingerprint upon my eyelid.
every little life sets wings to wildfire.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and not (to gratify or make well)
those coming quickly (spoudazein)
for a brief time (oligon chronon)
but those
consistently (homoios)
throughout all of life (dia pantos tou biou)
will-being friends (philois esomenois)
// 234α
οὐδὲ τοῖς ὀλίγον χρόνον σπουδάζουσιν
ἀλλὰ τοῖς ὁμοίως διὰ παντὸς τοῦ βίου φίλοις ἐσομένοις
Rafflesia arnoldii
it smells like a rotting corpse
they say, of the reddish-brown giantess
whose speckled blossom murks the jungle cloud
in Kalimantan with her foul putrescence.
blowflies in frenzied ritual surround
her swollen beef-like lips, unfurling with
a steamy hiss.
you steal the kiss.
and wipe your conscience with
a bloody handkerchief.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and not (to gratify or make well) those who
having done-it-through (dia-prassein)
will befriend honor (philo-timeomai)
toward others
but those who
(self-)uglying (aischunein)
will keep silence (simopaein)
toward the all
οὐδὲ οἳ διαπραξάμενοι πρὸς τοὺς ἄλλους φιλοτιμήσονται
ἀλλ᾽ οἵτινες αἰσχυνόμενοι πρὸς ἅπαντας σιωπήσονται
//
a visit with the donkey of Rabi'a al-'Adawiya
if the world would like to hear how Rabi’a
gained courage or her strange immunity
to fear, for friendship, i would explain. yet,
a friend is not a purveyor of shallots; nor
pinned apples, by the donkey’s tale. her debt
of tears she brought with her most carefully.
this baggage carries me, her dogged ass;
my nag for recollection married with
my nap of opportunity. fresh dates
don’t pluck a prophet from the fetching tree.
a footfelt softness is velvet delivery
under her bending limb, and broken news
is armor. what teeming droplets, but by winter?
what is the desert, if not her country of birth?
what is her coin, if not the cake she gives
right back, the moment she has tasted worth.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and not as many as
will enjoy the gain (apo-lauein)
of your season (hora)
but those who will give after (meta-didonai)
of their own goods (ton spheteron agathon)
to one born older (presbuteroi genomenoi)
// 234α
οὐδὲ ὅσοι τῆς σῆς ὥρας ἀπολαύσονται
ἀλλ᾽ οἵτινες πρεσβυτέρῳ γενομένῳ τῶν σφετέρων ἀγαθῶν μεταδώσουσιν
//
in this, changed “dense” to “rich”.
have also reworked the (tricky)
first few lines of the Lysias speech.
storied desire
cries, the piercing prophecy, momentous
saturation; all breasts equally my mother
back then. the born believe a milky way
is worthy of the bowl-stretched-opening.
my fathered evolution, separation: it
plants pillars underneath indifference.
like siblings on the page, each owns its pain;
instruction speaks the crepitus of limbs.
left outlines carry the crunching of leaves;
a subtle switch, the circumstantial spring.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and not only (to gratify or make well)
the begging
but those worthy (axios)
of the act (pragma)
οὐδὲ τοῖς προσαιτοῦσι μόνον
ἀλλὰ τοῖς τοῦ πράγματος ἀξίοις
//
//
🌕
Happy Birthday to Her
(got resurrection
yet?)
last night, we had a birthday dinner for Blih’s fiancée.
having lived with him for years, we have a lumayan
understanding of his habits in relationship. and i hope
beyond hope that they can make it work. because i love
her, and already, i feel like she is my sister.
so we take them out, to the restaurant at the end of
the island. where, for one night, she and my brother
might dine, and be treated, like we, who bring foreign
money here. and i will tell you frankly, the dining scene
is fucked-up. where even to begin.
(someday maybe i’ll know how to share Mak Sun’s way
of making krawu. that day is not here.)
the maskmaker and i are semi-regulars at this restaurant,
a vegan place, where the staff know us well enough
by now, and treat my husband with dignity and respect.
nothing puts a damper on a lovey-dovey date quite like
everybody assuming he’s a delivery driver.
so we order a variety of delicious dishes, none local,
all absurd, decadent, and as fun as we can manage. well
it seems, in Bali, and from all sides, that foreign money
will buy you anything; will fix any problem; will satisfy any
want. and foreigners arrive so ravenous for grace.
(not to be confused with Grace, who is our bossiest hen.
we do not eat her for a reason.)
where was i? as fun as we can manage. but from the start,
i can tell, my brother and sister are exhausted. perhaps
from arguments. this is okay. we are family; we have
been stuck into each others tangled lives; we have seen
the messy, the tearful, the claws; the krawu.
my sister explains the facts of her new job; reception
at a salon, where, with a similar disability as me, she can
work seated. it has better incentives than her previous
job; but demands a 60-hour week, leaving her one day
free, for her children, from a previous marriage.
not to mention, Blih. our brother is a tough and heartfelt
man. he connects diversities of jobs; he body-builds, covered
with tattoos, with discipline; often on sosmed; he hosts
and keeps the family guesthouse (it’s complicated); and
he does security at cockfights.
we listen, express sympathy, and take note of what
our loved ones need; what we can say that might help,
and what we might possibly do; to be good friends
and keep our family together and strong; as our family
has done, does, and has the will to do, for us.
at the end of the night, after (surprise!) chocolate lava
cakes, rich molten cores melting into vanilla-laced, coconut-
based ice cream; the waiters having sung happy birthday
(in English), coercing the entire room (of foreigners)
to sing along; my sister and i share a hug.
send me a message whenever you need, i say; and come
visit us, whenever you can, or please. i know, i say, that he
can be a big, overgrown child, sometimes. (of what man is
this not true?) but he has a good heart. and we all pray
that he remembers it, in good time.
she murmurs several things in reply, one of which
is this (in Indonesian): i don’t want to be a bother. to which
i say, my voice as firm as i can muster: don’t you think
about that. jangan begitu. we are all afraid to be a bother;
when nothing on this earth is worth more than a friend.
as we drive home, the maskmaker and i discuss the All.
(it’s what we do. it is what marriage is, for us. just fyi.)
we both have hope, though he’s more optimistic than me.
that is his habit; he has his reasons. go tell the ai, we all
(Alhamdulillah) have our reasons.
it isn’t until the next morning that it clicks. our brother
and sister had wondered (i didn’t quite understand it at
the time), whether we do any markets (or smthng). now
i realize, and grab my phone to send the urgent text: DO NOT
give your nest-egg to crypto, mlm, or any other scam!!
after which
i say, to the giving sky —
if i am a golden calf
lets take me to the bank
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
but equally (isos)
it is fitting (prosekein) to gratify (charizein)
not the ones in violent (sphodra) need (deein)
but those who are most able (dunamai)
to pay back (apodidonai)
the grace (charis)
// 233ε
ἀλλ᾽ ἴσως προσήκει οὐ τοῖς σφόδρα δεομένοις χαρίζεσθαι
ἀλλὰ τοῖς μάλιστα ἀποδοῦναι χάριν δυναμένοις
//
eta note: i am taking a rest day tomorrow
for a routine medical procedure. x
warning label
we have a few best friends
every one of them wears a veil
these are their reasons
when one comes in
(by then its already too late)
the heart itself goes inside-out
every one of them should
come with a warning
label
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
and so surely indeed
in private consummation (idiais dapanaein)
it is worthy to call near (para-kaleein)
not beloveds (philoi)
but beggars (pros-aiteein)
and ones needing to be filled (deomenous plesmones)
// 233δ
καὶ μὲν δὴ καὶ ἐν ταῖς ἰδίαις δαπάναις
οὐ τοὺς φίλους ἄξιον παρακαλεῖν
ἀλλὰ τοὺς προσαιτοῦντας καὶ τοὺς δεομένους πλησμονῆς
snowflake (light) upon
moss
were the coming
ears
of spring
lets
not sent ences
this
ill
symm etry
can, in-
to
a warm
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for becoming free (apallassein)
of the greatest ills (kakos)
plentiful (pleistos)
grace (charis)
will go
will come
will be known (eisontai)
by them
// 233δ
μεγίστων γὰρ ἀπαλλαγέντες κακῶν
πλείστην χάριν αὐτοῖς εἴσονται
//
every day
from the other room
Al-Fatihah
ngaji for beginners
toss your compost out the window here
and wake to find a garden of impassables.
the rainy season, barely holding on, nurses
refuse; i think the earth cant help itself.
of course i arrived on an airplane of garbage
along with other harbingers of the end
of the island. i remember motorbike rides
across the sawah during the pandemic,
when it was sinking in how forever i was
here; the tropical scene windswept and quiet,
the people returning to their villages
to farm; it felt as if everyone was home.
back then, we couldnt mampir yet
and i didnt know that if you let a chili grow
it can live for years; it can become a little caterpillar-
munched tree, studded with flaming-hot fruit.
our neighbors treat me like Princess Di.
it doesnt help that i am shy; when we try
to take a walk, we end up seated, with coffee,
small-talk and gossip peppered with serious
conversation; which is my husbands work.
he cultivates connection, setting down
our roots, as i behold, just stupefied
by the spongey texture of community.
and then, i watch out of the corner of
my eye; i fall asleep amidst rotations of rice
and peanuts, tomatoes blushing on the vine
with fields of corn and sugarcane, rows
of marigolds and magenta gomphrena,
patches of green mustard and frilly cabbage,
near densely-shaded thickets of coffee and cacao.
i would absorb the pace of those in steady
negotiation with the sky, and what it gives
the terraced land, absorbing what it can,
for what it gives us — and by my daily plate,
it gives me very, very much.
and too, i read an article about a strong El Niño,
and one about the AMOC shutting down,
and news of friends in Denpasar, their flooded
houses and kos kosans; and always stuck
in traffic, in service to dollars, rubles, yuan,
the concrete surface spreading ever closer.
the village priest asks to send his daughter
to me, so she can practice her English.
of course, i say, let her come, frozen inside
with something like a knot that i cant name.
so im old enough (for here) to be a grandmother
but all the children say i look like Elsa.
so i let them see me picking up plastic,
and in the dirt, on my hands and knees, digging
up peanuts. it used to be my daily task
to ask the young, what is justice?
these days i find my figure lined and lit
inquiring at the city of necessity, ex-
perimenting with my best friends hair — ngaji.
so how shall i explain this, and to whom?
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
yet if it is necessary (chre)
to gratify (charizesthai) most
the ones most lacking (deomenoi)
it is also fitting (prosekein) for the others
to make well (eu poieein)
not the best ones (beltistos)
but the ones most at an impasse (a-porotatoi)
// 233δ
ἔτι δὲ εἰ χρὴ τοῖς δεομένοις μάλιστα χαρίζεσθαι
προσήκει καὶ τοῖς ἄλλοις
μὴ τοὺς βελτίστους ἀλλὰ τοὺς ἀπορωτάτους εὖ ποιεῖν
broken poem / ugly poem
broken poem
if this presents itself to you
that friendship is not born
unless somebody happens
to be hungry for your heart
if this presents itself to you
that children are not made
much
nor are fathers and mothers
if this presents itself to you
finding your heart in need
and needing to acquire
a trustworthy friend
i believe you
i do not wonder why
i have been there too
but this
is not that place
so
make me
a broken poem
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
then if this presents (itself) (paristanai) to you
that such strong friendship (ischuran philian)
is not born (gignomai)
unless someone happens (tugchanein)
to be loving (eros)
it is necessary (chre)
to (go) into the heart (en-thumeisthai)
that neither would we make (poieein)
children
about much (peri pollou)
nor fathers and mothers
nor would we have acquired (ktaomai)
trustworthy (pistos)
friends (philos)
who have become (gignomai) such
not from desire (epi-thumia)
but from other (heteron)
practices (epi-tedeumaton)
// 233ξ
εἰ δ᾽ ἄρα σοι τοῦτο παρέστηκεν
ὡς οὐχ οἷόν τε ἰσχυρὰν φιλίαν γενέσθαι
ἐὰν μή τις ἐρῶν τυγχάνῃ
ἐνθυμεῖσθαι χρὴ
ὅτι οὔτ᾽ ἂν τοὺς ὑεῖς περὶ πολλοῦ ἐποιούμεθα
οὔτ᾽ ἂν τοὺς πατέρας καὶ τὰς μητέρας
οὔτ᾽ ἂν πιστοὺς φίλους ἐκεκτήμεθα
οἳ οὐκ ἐξ ἐπιθυμίας τοιαύτης γεγόνασιν
ἀλλ᾽ ἐξ ἑτέρων ἐπιτηδευμάτων
//
ugly poem
lettuce share
sandwich of ends
open-face
if-only
our eggs are smeared
with chickenshit
no lie
look at all those words
does it mean
i can take
the weekend off now
does it mean
my broken poem
is being swallowed up
(may it
be so)
and digested by
the ugly one
you turn
me into
//
🌓
just guessing (silly trilogia)
fool me baby kiss the dice
fool me til my work is thrice-
done and death be (tenderly) well-come
into the mess of heavens nature
(un)tangling dots of fairy light
and solemn practicing of ends
the bodys end (heartbroke) remembering
the sweeter end (lovesong) right here
the strangers end (artist) in-bending-thought
a sandwich (!) for these things are signs
of a long-time friendship of will-
being and where may-happens-wonder
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
for these things are signs (tekmeria)
of a long-time friendship (philia)
of will-being (fut. part. eimi)
// 233ξ
ταῦτα γάρ ἐστι φιλίας πολὺν χρόνον ἐσομένης τεκμήρια
Other-taught
(interview with the maskmaker by his wife)
living in a house of masks
is not for everybody
but it is real
the proportions of a mask
belie the ratio
of its invitation
what the heart desires
will not be had
without a mask
a mask is not an enemy
a mask is not a lie
it is a method
to have and hold a face
to have and hold a want
with the un-willing
to try and try again
to turn and turn away
the many willing ways
when a mask completes its turn
from the mouth is born
a lover in reverse
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
(on the one hand)
holding (echein)
agreement (suggnome)
with the un-willing (aekousios)
(on the other)
trying (peiraein)
to turn away (apotrepein)
the willing (ekousioa)
// 233ξ
τῶν μὲν ἀκουσίων συγγνώμην ἔχων
τὰ δὲ ἑκούσια πειρώμενος ἀποτρέπειν
//
//
🌒
oligen orgen
this morning i wake up still thinking
about the different words for strength.
and worrying if i should change my word
for kraton to reflect mastery or rulership.
and repeating the greek outloud to feel
the shapes and sounds that occupy my mouth.
ischuran echthran — i keep saying it because
the ugliness is exciting and pleasurable.
and then there is oligen orgen — which i very
eagerly desire to hear you speak.
so i turn to you, as i would beg you to repeat
these slightly stirring words.
but when i see you watching me, with your
patient and familiar expression —
just then, the wonder of this given shelter
plants me softly on my knees.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
not through small things
taking up (ana-aireein)
strong hatred (ischuran echthran)
but through big things
slowly (bradeos)
making (poieein)
slight temper (oligen orgen)
// 233ξ
οὐδὲ διὰ σμικρὰ ἰσχυρὰν ἔχθραν ἀναιρούμενος
ἀλλὰ διὰ μεγάλα βραδέως ὀλίγην ὀργὴν ποιούμενος
Ophelia revisited
my grief remains for the flowers, the herbs,
the growth habits i learned to recognize,
the pungent smells of bruised leaves, and
a lake with which i had grown familiar. only
with hesitation do i crush a sprig of rosemary.
the plants and seasons here are different.
i try not to use Latinate species names, or
the determinacy of words to describe life, as
a guest. sometimes it seems inevitable, and
i contribute to the loss already underway.
nothing is more miraculous than a human
body. becoming container for the self-strange,
unbecoming as that may be, mine followed me
here, reiterating its lesson without the black-
clad metaphor: no entry gained by force, beyond
barest survival. and the last time you
came begging here; when her hand was offered
to mine in marriage, now as i was candlelit royalty
in a fortress built of aging apples; the last time i
invited forth the rampaging fourth wall, to cross
the threshold of my door, to hold the iffy
soliloquy of me; would be the last time for
it all. no other help to meet the human
who doesn’t make and keep a home to serve
the stranger, the migrant, the nameless refugee.
//
Phaedrus: (as Lysias, cont.)
primarily not
to present-being (pareimi)
pleasure (hedone)
(for you)
will i together-be (suneimi)
(with you)
attending (therapeuein)
but to lingering-doing (mellein)
help (opheleia)
to-be (esesthai)
by you
// 233β
πρῶτον μὲν οὐ τὴν παροῦσαν ἡδονὴν
θεραπεύων συνέσομαί
σοι
ἀλλὰ καὶ τὴν μέλλουσαν ὠφελίαν ἔσεσθαι
//
photo from April 2019