Night, Mystery & Light by: J.K. McDowell

NIGHT, M|STER| & LIGHT

NIGH T,

mystery

&LIGH T a poetry collection by

J.K. McDowell

with a foreword by Tom Cowan

h Ir a eTh P r eSS

da n V er S , M aSSaChUSeT TS

Copyright © 2011 J.K. McDowell All Rights Reserved. This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages.

An effort has been made to trace the ownership of all copyrighted material contained in this book, to request permission where necessary, and to use that material in accordance with the terms of fair use. Errors will be corrected upon notifying the publisher.

First Edition 2011 Cover and text design by Jason Kirkey Cover painting © Bonnie Camos ISBN: 978-0-9835852-3-7 Hiraeth Press books may be purchased for education, business or sale promotional use. For information, please write: Special Markets Hiraeth Press P.O. Box 1442 Pawcatuck, CT 06379-1968 The poems “. . . now ride” on p. 63 and “. . . the same” on p. 101 have previously appeared in Written River: A Journal of Eco-poetics in the Summer 2011 issue.

Published by Hiraeth Press Danvers, Massachusetts www.hiraethpress.com

To The Muses, To The Angels and To The Duende and To Paula

Contents viii 3 5 7 9 11 13 15 17 19 21 23 25 27 29 31 33 35 37 39 41 43 45 47 49 51 53 55 57 59 61 63 65

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Dark-Bright Worlds a foreword by Tom Cowan . . . always. . . . after all. . . . and lose. . . . and the playwright. . . . and seed. . . . arrives soon. . . . being myself. . . . beyond agreement. . . . beyond grief. . . . breathe. . . . divine dream. . . . drink up. . . . feel alive. . . . finds poetry. . . . from the heart. . . . held my demons. . . . is coming. . . . is needed. . . . is there. . . . is yours. . . . journey begins. . . . just reborn. . . . just wake up. . . . let’s eat. . . . made real. . . . many colors. . . . neat and true. . . . never dance. . . . not emptiness. . . . now renewed. . . . now ride. . . . of tears.

67 69 71 73 75 77 79 81 83 85 87 89 91 93 95 97 99 101 103 105 107 109 111 113 115 117 119 121 123 125 127 129 131 132

. . . of understanding. . . . or spoken. . . . own party. . . . own Shadow. . . . peaceful rest. . . . prison cell. . . . quite differently. . . . silvery face. . . . so grand. . . . someone else. . . . that desire. . . . that matters. . . . the castle. . . . the Circle. . . . the clippers. . . . the edge. . . . the envelope. . . . the same. . . . the sinking. . . . them all. . . . these wheels. . . . this blood. . . . this is. . . . to me. . . . to reality . . . too often. . . . twisted body. . . . were true. . . . with his ten. . . . with you. . . . words above? . . . your wonderment.

About the Author Acknowledgments

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Dark-Bright Worlds

•

a foreword by Tom Cowan

W

hen we read a good poem, we fall into it. For a moment we live within the poem, touching its sides, breathing its atmosphere, absorbing its unique view of the world. Some poems pull us in comfortably and we know exactly where we are. We can almost imagine what will happen next, even before we read it. The poems of J. K. McDowell lead us elsewhere, into a labyrinth of places and settings, rare moods and disturbing possibilities. Here our uncertain windings often bring unexpected gifts as we touch its walls of images and wander its hallways of feeling.

The ghazal is a poetic form originally created by sixthcentury Persian mystics. A form at the fringes of western poetry, touching Goethe and Garcia Lorca with its expressive potential. McDowell writes a modern and personal form of ghazal poetry that wonderfully creates a world of tension that has one foot in the commonplace objects and events and the other foot in the world of dreams and reverie. The voice of this poet asks, suggests, wonders, and sometimes answers, always moving onward to discover a further world of important questions about the meaning of our lives. As we read, we ride his questions, and follow his answers, and share in his rich discoveries. We feel the exhilaration that

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he does as he surrenders to the momentum of the symbols and images that carry him (and us) through the poem.

One characteristic of the ghazal is that the poet’s name sometimes appears in the last verse. McDowell often ends his poems with a challenge to “Jim,” a question usually asking him to make sense of his life. Yet as we feel our way through the earlier stanzas, living within their diaphanous walls, we overhear this final question as if it were directed at us. One of the joys of reading McDowell’s poetry is precisely this—that his questions urge us to make deeper sense of our own lives. You will discover, along with him, the almost seamless way the ordinary and non-ordinary realities of our soul’s deep dreaming support and create a multi-layered world to live in. It is a world that intrigues us while reading the poem and that lingers long after we lay the poem aside.

Like traditional ghazals—like poetry in every trad­ition— McDowell’s themes include love, longing, ­melancholy, separation, and the metaphysical questions that can keep us up at night or send us to poetry such as this for comfort, support, and enlightenment, or as he says in one poem “a shining endarkenment.” This collection of poetry will ­appeal especially to poets and to everyone who sees the world through a poet’s eyes. Many of the poems address the joys and sufferings, the pain and healing that accompanies the man or woman who boldly sets pen to paper to write a poem.

Robert Frost wrote that a poem is a “momentary stay against confusion.” And in McDowell’s poems we are keenly aware of how that stay is truly and only momentary.

In his poems, reality is a shape-shifter, and the poems ready us for the scars of confusion that can come to the seeker who tries to understand this constantly shifting world. As he says in one poem, “Your search for inspiration has not ix

led to many/Casualties but there are teeth marks beneath the flesh.” In another poem he muses, “I heard that the dreams of fools change reality.” Another poem implies “we have slept too long in/The moonlight.”

Moonlight and fools, dreams and long slumbering, teeth marks and inspiration—these are just some of the turns along the labyrinth where you may want to pause and wonder as you follow J. K. McDowell through his darkbright worlds in the poems of Night, Mystery & Light.

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NIGH T,

mystery

&LIGH T

. . . always.

Reality needs the caress of the weirding.

There is some progress. I am starting to understand That my time here is not a work of fiction.

Self-portraits are rarely vanity, sometimes the Artist has no cash for a model and infinite Patience is a costly deal – paint is cheaper.

Every Hello has a Goodbye folded inside.

Holding that bouquet, her smile fills the small front porch.

Will the future help us stand against these memories?

You know the eyes you paint yet do not recognize, Form the gaze that looks inward toward a wilder Vision hinted at in ancient cave drawings.

The voice of a friend is a delight to the ears, Even if the day has dragged you through the dust.

Distance, decades, shrink beyond fatigue and you smile.

Realize of course, Jim, in the end the poet fails.

The words and feelings and dreams just mix in the wrong Proportions – the readings too fall short – always.

3

. . . after all.

Bad poetry is written every day. Today His foot presses the pedal, the drill sings because You are here, in the chair of the world’s worst dentist.

No - wrong! The o≈ces are closed today.

The misadventure you seek is elsewhere and Of your own doing. Sit back, relax, take the pen in hand.

How much of the Soul do we avoid by forgetting To make the appointment? The mind alone?

A poor booking agent - OK - clear the calendar.

The Spiral is not much help here. I know the Geometry is right but which way do I trace The path? The answer comes: “Outward toward the center.”

Trite, but no less true. I understand the folding Of space-time but one side demands proof and the Other side feeds the flow. Alas, we forget the heart.

Well Jim, this did not start as planned. Nightmares Bleed into reality as the ink smears the Pages and here you sit in the chair after all.

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. . . and lose.

Pecans crunch underfoot announcing the morning Commute. Endings and beginnings overlap in Melted sugar as the pralines cool in the kitchen.

I want to be the water that cleans away That white wash of plaster from your hands, from your face And wait with you, as the shape of passion dries solid.

The purple flowering fades and I do not trust Your intentions. My strategy? – The thistle Takes no chances, the spines point in all dimensions.

I understood the advice. “You will be unprepared.”

Your whispers of razor sharp images fuse in a Soft sticky sweet mix of surreal desire.

Miss Camille, your red clay madness troubles your family.

Under cover of night, digging along the banks of the Siene, The foundation for your imprisonment takes shape.

An artist creates, what could be simpler?

The mishap, Jim is in your denial, in your delay.

Shell games where the “clever” stake the Heart and lose.

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. . . and the playwright.

You cannot understand all the spaces of Unseen beauty, the threads that touch everything and Restore our ruins to their intended grandeur.

We ask “why” too often, as if somehow knowledge Of links beyond our grasp would ease the disturbed Tendencies of distrust and bring us any peace.

There is a bigger picture. One view assembles In the moments we cherish. A sigh, a glance, a touch, a tear.

Then the thwack of the walking stick returns the present.

There is pain, the sense of danger, a warning of Further damage to be avoided. This Despair is Something else, a choice to turn away from Hope.

This quantum flourish of impossibilities Is not the crushing rouge wave of your favorite Ocean of sadness. Sink into the rise and fall of stillness.

J. K. yesterday you moved the false self from Its comfortable chair and on to the chessboard.

Today, the play and the players and the playwright.

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. . . and seed.

Blake knew the Infinity of the Soul blinded me.

I need vision without eyes, where the Heart drops warm Breadcrumbs and I walk deep into the forest dark.

A sour cream donut and two forks – markers for an Already productive morning. Elsewhere, a gold key Is left to wait under a distant doormat.

A restless wind of words written in my hand Cry out for attention from unstable stacks of Spiral bound notebooks. I write and add to the madness.

Nervously self-assured I read the directions.

“Preheat to 450 and bake for 10 minutes.”

I have so much but no oven, clock, pan or dough.

Can you savor the sweetness of uncertainty?

Can we stop the known slipping into the unknown?

Rediscovery is always on the agenda.

Some days are like this one and then others are not.

Take shade under the this once blighted tree Jim and Remember that you are the blossom, fruit and seed.

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. . . arrives soon.

A truly misguided heart flames out of control.

We delight in the crackling sound at the oven door And distain the black burnt crust served later.

Que≤ueg, all I can see are bones. The paths of Measure and Motion remain a mystery to me.

Please teach me the recipes: gestures and insights.

I met a revenant hiding behind the fears I held so dear. She had my eyes. Inappropriate Exposures do not happen often enough.

Pixels swim as living jewels of contemplation In a pond without wetness. This is the modern Progress we can hold in the palm of our hand My memories of these times stumble over Each other. The confusion makes no headway Toward the apogee of my Soul and clarity.

I know this poem has knocked you sideways Jim. How do you know that is not the right direction?

Wait here – sit – listen – the new vision arrives soon.

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. . . being myself.

Why the sour face when you know it is vinegar?

Savor the taste, imagine bizarre spices and Bathing your next rib eye in a new marinade.

Friend, here is the true scene: We need to witness with Compassion our own folly and then be willing, Without pausing, to take the pen and make our mark.

Strange, curious laughter comes from the next room.

Not dull human conversation but a universe of Sound manipulated in the psittacine mind.

Driver’s ed. warns you should not overdrive your headlights.

Does science brighten the darkness too quickly?

If so, are we the driver or are we the deer?

When Bill and Brion were putting Humpty Dumpty back Together again, there among the eggshells was The answer to the question of our existence.

Characters stitched on my shirt read: I Chi Ban. My future was never to amount to much, Just the world’s very best at being myself.

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. . . beyond agreement.

The grand designs of orb weavers sway softly in The planetary morning whispers. Too often We forget the frailty of the 10,000 things.

Warnings are at times fruitless. Breathing in the Unrealized dreams of others can suffocate The sensitive and especially the unaware.

Handle only at the edges and don’t touch here.

Have patience; there is something else to be done Today that will save someone’s life, unknown but true.

One thing blends into the other and neither Is what appears or the opposite. Surface and Soul seen all at once is a confusing affair.

The shade awaits the visitor in blue-black feathers.

The cool mud savors the warm grip of the claws.

The corvid’s stern glance reminds me of an old friend.

The Darkness behind your eyes – how do you argue With that voice, Jim? Oh yes, you are correct! There is A brightness without shadow, beyond agreement.

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. . . beyond grief.

I rushed through the turning pages of darkness And pale moonlight. Now in view, you’re with two fairies.

Then the next breath, gone! I’m lost in the mist and the grief.

Is the padded cell a preferred suffering?

One can’t get a doctorate without studying.

I question your major = madness born from her grief.

The trees had witnessed blood-splattered grasses.

Oh voice of Andalusian dusts, you could Face the cold rifle muzzles without fear, without grief.

The ticket is lost and hence the jewelry I borrowed sits unclaimed at the pawnshop.

Your eyes mirror my disappointment and grief.

The turning of the hurdy gurdy mixes the clay And compost of memory as the grinding wheel Polishes the rough gems of accepting this grief.

James K., you could diagram the blind choices and The certain targets, the unknowns and the knowns.

The Soul cannot be ignored, move beyond grief.

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. . . breathe.

They longed for liberty and respite from tyranny.

Not fathers but crafters – fashioning from Truth This land, our land, where freedom can live and breathe.

Adrift, no tangled connections, visible Or invisible. Just a single point of light Dimming to the opposite of darkness – now breathe.

We discuss what is yours and what is mine, yet the Dialog yearns for the Divine. Words like “surrender” And “acceptance” will allow the wine to breathe.

Lenses scratched, eyes water, the candle goes out.

So tonight you will have to wait for the daylight.

Listen softly even the darkness has to breathe OK, I missed the end of the world. Again!

A fool’s hope, a genius of indifference And that third thing – like when you decided to breathe.

Jim, did I just see you wink at the hatcheck girl?

Pay attention to the whispers of the Goddess.

Her words are the secrets none dare to ever breathe.

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About the Author J. K. McDowell is an artist, poet and mystic, an Ohioan expat living in Cajun country. Always immersed in poetry, raised in Buckeye country by a mother who told of “Sam I Am,” “Danny Deaver” and Annabel Lee” and a father who quoted Shakespeare and Omar Khayyam. In 1990 like so many others, McDowell learned of Robert Bly and began to experience a deeper importance to poetry, especially in the translations of Persian and Spanish poets.

In the last decade a deepened study of poetry and shamanism and nature has inspired a regular practice of writing poetry that blossomed into the works presented in this collection. McDowell is an artist and appreciator of blown, cast and fused glass as well as an artist and appreciator of ancient bookbindings. Lately, mixing Lorca and Lovecraft, McDowell lives twenty miles north of the Gulf Coast with his soul mate who also happens to be his wife and their two beautiful companion parrots.

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Acknowledgments There are two waves of deepest gratitude that I want to express. First is to the publication of this collection and the second to the poems as separate and individual.

These ďŹ rst sets of acknowledgements and praise are targeted to the Hearts and Hands that made the publication of this collection a reality. Many thanks and blessings go to Hiraeth Press. I am pleased that Night, Mystery & Light is part of their growing catalog. Jason Kirkey and L.M. Browning are a pleasure to work with. Their commitment and expertise and energies are much appreciated. I also want to thank Jamie K. Reaser for suggesting I approach Hiraeth Press with a proposal. Her keen vision saw through the mists of doubt into what was possible. I would like to extend a special thanks to Tom Cowan for agreeing to craft the foreword. Thanks also to Jamie K. Reaser and Frank Owen for their back cover endorsements. I am the proud owner of the acrylic painting whose image graces the front cover and many thanks to Bonnie Camos for allowing the use of its image.

These poems never intended to be published as a collection. Their writing and their reading have been a sort of spiritual practice over the last many years. I want to thank everyone who supported these works whether they read them as part of letters, emails, email lists, social network updates or blog posts.

Paula McDowell, Sharon McDowell, John David Mitchell, Patty Hartman, Jennifer Jacoby, Joan Levergood, Judi Madden, Maire Quilter, Tom Cowan, Frank Owen, Sally Joyce, Tammy Matthews, Jamie Reaser, Norm Kjome, Alyce Walker, Jenn MacCormack, Brandi Herrera, Michael Melby, L.M. Browning, Jason Kirky, Beth Anne Boardman.

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