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clcouch123

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clcouch123

In conversation, I prefer Christopher. My mom named me after Christopher Robin, after all. In writing, I use “C L Couch” (or, more simply, “c l couch”) because the form is genderless and also frankly easier to use. I have awful writer’s cramp. I am an educator more or less retired, more or less due to disability. At present, I live in Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania (USA). My writing here I mean to be occasional and also devotional. Either or both. The banner and profile photographs are by my friend and peer Debra Danielson. More of Debbie’s work to be enjoyed is at debradanielson.org. Thanks to each of you and both and all for coming to my blog.

Reading Lists

(x = space)

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Reading Lists

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Adrienne Rich

Wrote about Aunt Jennifer’s

Rings and tigers on screens

And diving into a wreck

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These were the poems

We interns were assigned

To read and teach,

And that was all right

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But reading on one’s own

With no one’s rubric but

One’s own

Is so much better;

I’m sure we were supposed

To instill some kind of

Critical process regarding

Life and reading in it

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But I’m not sure

How well that worked,

What kind of processes

We might have instilled,

What seeds grown,

What personal

Allegiances to one’s own

Mind and heart

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So was a new generation of

New readers of poetry

Begun?  Has it flourished?

Are they among the ones who

Turn to poetry when there’s

A tragedy?

x

(read up how we

took to verse after the

Towers fell)

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I like Rich, though that

Would not be enough

In that we were serving

A learning process

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It was a small, state school;

I never heard from anyone

Again, though nothing and

No one is due me

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A state away and many

Years, I wish us well

And to take up small books

Of miracles from time to time;

I do this, Mary Oliver’s

Most recently

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C L Couch

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Photo by Paweł Czerwiński on Unsplash

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The Twenty-Third Song

(x = space)

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The Twenty-Third Song

(a paraphrase)

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My life is wrecked

I feel ruined

And here you are, Lord;

I don’t know if I asked for you,

And I am so relieved

That you are here

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I thought there was a desert

But, look, there’s water

Cold and clear;

It is the best that I have tasted

And I have no doubt

That it is good for me

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This is more than I deserve

And maybe I should leave—well,

I feel your hand

Guiding me back;

I should stay a while

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I thought this was the end,

That I could not lose any more

And it was getting dark;

But you are here,

And maybe you were with me

While I was stumbling

Back there

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Look, here’s food:

And who are those around me?

They don’t come any closer

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Before I eat, please

Bless all this

And maybe me;

You are the one

To do it, after all

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Should you be with me

Through all that is to come,

Then blessings

Will continue, even in

The splintered times

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And because of you,

Your presence in my life,

When this life is done

And the next mystery begins,

I shall be with you

With a living place in heaven

Or on Earth renewed

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C L Couch

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Photo by Edgar Castrejon on Unsplash

Rome, Italy

The Forum, Roma

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“The Rape of the Lock”

(x = space)

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“The Rape of the Lock”

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Is a poem-story

About a theft of hair

(a basis for satire)

From times when

“Rape” meant abduction

(bad enough, though

if you know

The Fantastiks, then

you know)

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Even so, not a good

Word, made worse by

The way we use it

Now—given charge

And change

With reason

Words have power,

Don’t they?  Sometimes

More than action: try

Proclaiming “dictator”

Inside democracy

(listen to the only

speech in Chaplin’s

The Great Dictator)

Or cry “freedom” inside

Tyranny

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Then there’s

“Joy” in a

Cheerless place,

Challenging the time

Another way

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Have a gentle day

And mind (and mine)

Your choice of words, and

Take comfort from

The people with whom

You don’t have to

Fret so much

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C L Couch

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Photo by Kristian Strand on Unsplash

New York, United States

Type

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To Pilgrim

(x = space)

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To Pilgrim

(at Thanksgiving, USA)

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Pilgrims

On Thanksgiving

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We make fun

Of their hats

And buckles

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They might as well

Have been a foreign

People to the

(rest of the)

Whites as all the

Indigenous to

The whites

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And they were:

They were a foreign

People

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They carried faith

And dignity,

Faith in dignity,

To what all the western

Coastal, European

People called

A new world

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Through stratagem

Or accident, they

Settled too far

North

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They struggled;

They strove

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Everything was

Struggling and

Striving to them

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Moving, going

On their way

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For them, to be

A pilgrim was

An action

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On a journey

Neverending, ‘til

The end of this life

Start into another

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C L Couch

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Photo by Dhimas Widrayato on Unsplash

It was 22:39, I went out to get some fresh air after some coding session then I saw a big moon on the sky, so I grab my camera then go to open space to shot this picture. The photo was taken in Tangerang, Indonesia.

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Anticipation

Anticipation

(in pandemic time)

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A day of

Thanksgiving

Is a week or so

From now

x

The Canadians

Had theirs on

Traditional

Columbus Day

And my sister’s

Birthday

x

We could combine

The two (not

the birthday) and

Thank first people

For tying up our

Boats, once

We got here

And then have

A national apology

Day for what was

Done to them

Next and since

It’s going to be

A bitterer day,

Anyway

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Maybe we should

Thank the thankless

For a change,

Which would add

Some sweetness

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And bittersweet

Ain’t bad

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There’s wisdom

In it, for it’s

A quality

Both positive

And tempered

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A good

Thanksgiving,

USA, once we get

There and in

Anticipation

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C L Couch

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By Visitor7 – Own work, CC BY-SA 3.0, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=27155416

Ketchup Bottles at Fullers Coffee Shop

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(sorry, the image is especially enigmatic—a combination of the title, a song, and an advertisement)

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Ray Bradbury’s Writing Table

(x = space)

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Ray Bradbury’s Writing Table

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I hope it’s true

He showed it to us,

Talked us through it

Right before each

Episode;

So many toys and

Other things, reminders

Of this world

And other worlds;

There was a metal

Spaceship, the old kind

You wind up; and

There were toy dinosaurs

And many other things,

Curios and totems

Any of which

Might become

Dandelion Wine,

A Martian chronicle

Or Something Wicked

This Way Comes

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I hope it’s true

And not a set piece,

Though I suppose it doesn’t

Matter; the writing

Table, writing place

Has been lodged in

My brain, coming

Up as memory

Every now and then,

Evocation of

Evocation, and of course

I have my own symbols

Now around me, and

I trust that

You have yours

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C L Couch

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The Ray Bradbury Theatre was a show first broadcast in the 1980s.

Ray Bradbury was a writer who created many monumental works, among them Fahrenheit 451, The Martian Chronicles, Dandelion Wine, and Something Wicked This Way Comes.

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Photo by Charl Folscher on Unsplash

Part of a series of concept photos I took during lockdown using drawing mannequins.

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Grace Shall Abide

(x = space)

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Grace Shall Abide

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What is grace

But surprise

Wrapping us

Inside a storm,

Bringing us to

Unnoticed shelter

Where there’s

A song to sing

Through thunder

And a light

So much steadier

Than lightning

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The ground

Might tremble

But we are held as

Much as we

Need to be for

Safety until morning

When should the

Storm rage on

Or anyway,

Grace shall abide

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(fine)

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coda

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Not a human

Agency; we do not

Dispense it and

Should not

Deceive ourselves

Nor about cost

Or which

There’s none:

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We ask,

We receive;

Maybe it comes

Anyway,

A wild and loving

Trickery, fit for

Storms and then

In quiet moments

When a song

Rather than a curse

Can be,

Might be

Heard or

Received through

Other senses

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d. c. al fine

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C L Couch

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Photo by Pascal Bernardon on Unsplash

6 Boulevard du Palais, 75001 Paris, France, Paris

Concert à la Sainte Chapelle

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Imposition of Immortality

(x = space)

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Imposition of Immortality

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The tree outside looked as if it were leaning toward the window.  I mean big parts, think branches and the bow.  Black against a gray sky, it all looked dramatic.  Worse, a little scary.  Trees have fallen down before.  In the back, a large one, bringing many wires with it.  In the backyard of the house I grew up in in Pittsburgh, a tall and wide willow.  Fell in the night, covering the backyard to be seen in the daylight.  The first big thing to fall in my nascent awareness.  Will the new tree fall?  I don’t know.  Who does?  The squirrels and dogs walked by?  Qué será, será, the Spanish say (and Doris Day).  It is what it is, we say these days.  All we are is dust in the wind.  I guess that goes for imposing trees as well.

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C L Couch

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Ode: Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood

By William Wordsworth

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45536/ode-intimations-of-immortality-from-recollections-of-early-childhood

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Photo by Diane Helentjaris on Unsplash

Purcellville, Virginia

Old carved tombstone of a weeping willow tree in a cemetery in the countryside near Purcellville, Virginia in Loudoun County. The cemetery was integrated with the graves of African American and white Americans as was the nearby church.

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The Necessary Shadow

(x = space)

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The Necessary Shadow

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If we

Turn toward light,

We’ll need some shade

Not the kind to throw

But that kind that is

Provided by

Glasses or

A hand over our eyes,

Better still by

Trees inspired by

Craters on the moon

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Unmoored,

The light might take us far

If our eyes will need contrast

Even shadows

Providing shapes

Familiar or strange

Along the way

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I’m not sure that

This is death

When it might be something new

That will bring us home,

Afterward

The end of an exhausting day

As at work

Or an amusement park

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Light and darkness

Shape and shadow

Strenuous meditation

And there is such a thing

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The quiet life is not

An easy one,

Given the world

And our natures

While listening

Is hard as well

And nothing automatic

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Listen for the litany,

Expression and response

Between root and branch,

Wing and song

Listen for the turn of

Earth and the stretching

Of the band with

Its own satellite

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We are part of all this interaction

The universe a living place

For us

Life in life

All loves excelling

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C L Couch

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Photo by Thomas Richter on Unsplash

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“Love Divine, All Loves Excelling,” a hymn

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