Sunday Letter
J.S. Legg
there is no division

Not soon, as late as the approach of my ninetieth year,
I felt a door opening in me and I entered
the clarity of early morning.

One after another my former lives were departing,
like ships, together with their sorrow.

And the countries, cities, gardens, the bays of seas
assigned to my brush came closer,
ready now to be described better than they were before.

I was not separated from people,
grief and pity joined us.
We forget—I kept saying—that we are all children of the King.

For where we come from there is no division
into Yes and No, into is, was, and will be.

We were miserable, we used no more than a hundredth part
of the gift we received for our long journey.

Moments from yesterday and from centuries ago—
a sword blow, the painting of eyelashes before a mirror
of polished metal, a lethal musket shot, a caravel
staving its hull against a reef—they dwell in us,
waiting for a fulfillment.

I knew, always, that I would be a worker in the vineyard,
as are all men and women living at the same time,
whether they are aware of it or not.

— Czesław Miłosz, “Late Ripeness”

there is no division
Sunday Letter
J.S. Legg
the sharp axe of light

Out of the wood of thoughts that grows by night
To be cut down by the sharp axe of light,—
Out of the night, two cocks together crow,
Cleaving the darkness with a silver blow:
And bright before my eyes twin trumpeters stand,
Heralds of splendour, one at either hand,
Each facing each as in a coat of arms:
The milkers lace their boots up at the farms.

— Edward Thomas, “Cock-Crow”

the sharp axe of light
Sunday Letter
J.S. Legg
when soft voices die

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap'd for the belovèd's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.  

— Percy Bysshe Shelley, “Music, when soft voices die”

when soft voices die
Sunday Letter
J.S. Legg
These are the days

These are the days when birds come back,
A very few, a bird or two,
To take a backward look. 

These are the days when skies put on
The old, old sophistries of June, –
A blue and gold mistake. 

Oh, fraud that cannot cheat the bee,
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief, 

Till ranks of seed their witness bear,
And softly through the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf!

Oh, sacrament of summer days,
Oh, last communion in the haze,
Permit a child to join, 

Thy sacred emblems to partake,
Thy consecrated bread to break,
Taste thine immortal wine! 

— Emily Dickinson, “Indian Summer”

These are the days
Sunday Letter, Sale
J.S. Legg
that last rosebud

In my Autumn garden I was fain
     To mourn among my scattered roses;
     Alas for that last rosebud which uncloses
To Autumn’s languid sun and rain
When all the world is on the wane!
     Which has not felt the sweet constraint of June,
     Nor heard the nightingale in tune.

Broad-faced asters by my garden walk,
     You are but coarse compared with roses:
     More choice, more dear that rosebud which uncloses,
Faint-scented, pinched, upon its stalk,
That least and last which cold winds balk;
     A rose it is though least and last of all,
     A rose to me though at the fall.

— Christina Rossetti, “October Garden”

that last rosebud

Podcast

,

Listening

,
Listening

’T is you that are the music, not your song.
  The song is but a door which, opening wide,
  Lets forth the pent-up melody inside,
Your spirit’s harmony, which clear and strong
Sing but of you. Throughout your whole life long
  Your songs, your thoughts, your doings, each divide
  This perfect beauty; waves within a tide,
Or single notes amid a glorious throng.
  The song of earth has many different chords;
Ocean has many moods and many tones
  Yet always ocean. In the damp Spring woods
The painted trillium smiles, while crisp pine cones
  Autumn alone can ripen. So is this
  One music with a thousand cadences. 

—Amy Lowell, “Listening”

***

Once upon a time, way back in the 1990s, I studied journalism and media, and the famous saying of Marshall McLuhan, that “the medium is the message,” which I didn't entirely comprehend at the time, has since proved to be, in my view, an immensely important, fundamental truth, especially as it concerns young, developing human beings. 

In other words, when considering the impact of media, the primary influence is not the "content" so much as the means of communication, be it a book, a radio program, television, film, or . . . the internet, which, in a way, combines, or mimics, all previously-known media in a new form.
 

(Around here, you may have guessed, we quite like books, the best and most durable of mediums, of which we have several new, or new-again, featured this week.)
 

With McLuhan in mind, I have been somewhat ambivalent about “broadcasting” human voices over the internet—call it a podcast—and thus entering even more deeply into a relationship with an increasingly ubiquitous medium that seems to desire an ever-more complete integration with human consciousness. . . .

However, always aiming for a balanced view of things, and as people here and there continued to suggest that we do something along these lines, I considered the possibility, aware also of the more positive aspects of the medium, the reality of its current presence in the cultural sphere, and the need for its ultimate redemption. Eventually, with the help of a trusted producer-collaborator, I decided to do it; to make a podcasted audio “show,” but based on certain self-imposed conditions and intentions: 

  1. in-person human conversations only (no “zoom” calls; conversants meet face-to-face)

  2. audio only, and of the highest quality, given our recording circumstances (at our offices, not a studio)

  3. we “wing it”: any questions or prompts on my part, are born out of a genuine human interest in my "guest" and what they know, feel, or believe to be true (no pre-conceived formulae or agendas, ideally)

We call it “Aleatory Encounters,” even though, just as Mr. Dylan sings, “I don’t gamble with cards and I don’t shoot no dice.”

You can expect a new episode every three weeks for the rest of the year.

This first episode, the human-machine interface w/ Joe Allen, appropriately enough, deals quite directly with these and many more questions, challenges, and possibilities of our human-technological age. Let me know what you think.

Thanks for reading, always, and this time, if you like, thanks for listening. 

Keep in touch, John-Scott

, ,

out above the battered gold

, ,
out above the battered gold

The little man with the vague beard and guise
Pulled at the wicket. "Come inside!" he said,
"I'll show you all we've got now—it was size
You wanted?—oh, dry colors! Well"—he led
To a dim alley lined with musty bins,
And pulled one fiercely. Violent and bold
A sudden tempest of mad, shrieking sins
Scarlet screamed out above the battered gold
Of tins and picture-frames. I held my breath.
He tugged another hard—and sapphire skies
Spread in vast quietude, serene as death,
O'er waves like crackled turquoise—and my eyes
Burnt with the blinding brilliance of calm sea!
"We're selling that lot there out cheap!" said he.

—Stephen Vincent Benét, “Colors”

***

Greetings on this post-Independence Day Sunday! We’ve been working for a while now, intermittently, on a little audio project . . . more to come on that front. See at bottom for the bare announcement, and may your day be blessed with clarity, —JSL.

© SteinerBooks 2024