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Poet’s Introductory Note
As the first or primal man: how did Adam, symbolically and literally, get to earth? Seems obvious to me that, by logic, it was through means other than what we know of as the physical womb.
Yet, the how of all this can be considered a Zen koan.
It is one of the greatest philosophical and physical
questions:
How did we first get here?
Myths tell stories often fantastical yet presumably hinting at the truth; religions tell many stories that are, quite frankly, hard to fathom (unless taken metaphorically); scientists generally overlook the pre-physical and leave out much of anything related to personality or being-ness . . . while mystics, shamans, theosophists and the like, tell of origins i find more plausible.
Words and their roots also tell stories.
Definitions given for the word Adam in Hebrew are: earth, red, and man (as in humankind) — perhaps signifying red skin and/or red earth.
In Arabic, Adham (or Ad-Ham) means black skin or earth.
Ancient Egypt tells of the deity Atum, a word which has such meanings as: the beginning or ascension, to finish, completed one, ultimacy, totality. Thus, whole, and by extension, wise.
Fittingly, from the Greek, the word atom means: that cannot be cut, indivisible. And the word adamantine stems from: unconquerable, as with an impenetrable precious stone — which would naturally be of the earth, yet also of a divine nature! Hmmm . . . sounds like an Adam.
Put all those together and you get a primal being who is: precious-black-red-earth-wholeness-wisdom; this transcends any gender-specific labels.
Also, hamm or ham has such roots as meadow, pasture, village or home (as in hamlet or hampton), which fits nicely with earth.
According to the Oxford English Dictionary, an obsolete word ad comes from the Greek aithos meaning “burning heat, fire” which would explain both the red and black interpretations because fire is red, yet its after-effects are black. As to the question of how “th” and “d” might be interchanged, one example is: English “thanks” equals German “danka.”
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In whatever quiet you can muster, perhaps you will come up with (or it will come to you) an answer or THE answer.
The journey goes backwards, and forwards, and stays in one place.
Time is borne from the Timeless . . .
The journey goes outward, and inward, and . . .
nowhere special at all.
Space is fashioned from the Immeasurable . . .
The Ecstatic and the Serene each serve a purpose.
Spring Prayer: Country and City
Lay down your finest carpet
of rose petals and cherry blossoms
woven with the alchemy of sun-lit dew.
Let the robin’s song at daybreak
be all the reminder we need.
Let the fox in his hole
be the one to say
“look! nothing up my sleeve . . .”
and the window-washer reveal
how a town, even a city can sparkle.
When the moist earthen air rises
yard by pine needle woods,
gated daffodils by brownstone block
let the burrs of our folly drop away
let flowery stem understand
again the purpose of blue sky
and let sun’s rays dispel
all that fruitless taking of the land.
The Marathon of Your Smile 11-2-2008
In a mango grove a Kenyan oils the soles of his feet
because he is a long way from home.
Forty days and forty nights
in the desert and he has come out smiling
from underneath a sacred fig of the Bodhi tree
and onto the unforgiving pavement
beneath a marathon of leaves,
a panoply of exquisite colors, a busybody of nuisance.
This is not the hundred-yard-dash of a previous lifetime
nor the abrupt thrust of a weightlifter’s
clean-and-jerk— this is the marathon of your smile.
Through the dark ages of your frown,
through the crusades of your bigotous torture,
through the gulags and ovens and trail of tears
of your demise, and the gitmo of your wrenched lips,
to rows of townhouses like Bogart’s upper teeth
in the face of a coastal wind,
in defense of the oppressed.
Your teeth as crooked and happy as the streets of
Greenwich Village, your eyes a Renaissance of colors,
your mouth an Elizabethan dialogue, your nose and ears
and eyelashes an incomparable Golden Age, your smile
an age-old prophecy of doves biding their time.
It is a sad story, it is a happy story.
This is your life and for you i sing
and breathe and warble
a White-breasted Nuthatch the size of your heart,
the marathon of your smile
in the face of winter coming.
audio version with music by A. Molotkov
my GOD has an O
some spell G-d
as if there is a risk of insult
a chance for smiting
my GOD has an O
round as an apple
the moon the sun the earth . . .
this could go on and on
like Os do
like Ouroborous
or standing ovations
or orgasms
Oh! it’s nice to see you
once again
my GOD has an O
round as my right testicle
round as a Norwegian’s face in summer
as another round of drinks
round as been-there-done-that
found another ball to play with
as a merry-go-round or golden ring
or the Nothing they say we all come from
live with
go to
when all our rounds are over
© 2021 by Walter E. Harris III.
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