{"id":137990547,"date":"2025-11-03T15:32:24","date_gmt":"2025-11-03T21:32:24","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/?p=137990547"},"modified":"2025-11-03T15:32:24","modified_gmt":"2025-11-03T21:32:24","slug":"november-new-beginnings","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/jahangiri.us\/2020\/november-new-beginnings\/","title":{"rendered":"November, New Beginnings"},"content":{"rendered":"

Summer Hiatus<\/h2>\n

One of the things my husband and I dreamed of doing in retirement was to travel more. We finished visiting all of the states and started on National Parks. Between May and November, we have been to Utah to hike in Bryce Canyon and Zion National Parks; Calgary to explore Banff; Belgium for a family reunion with a side trip to The Netherlands; Pennsylvania – because my husband had never been to Pittsburgh or Philadelphia – I finally relented with the condition that we take a train around Horseshoe Curve and stop in Hershey for chocolate and for me to meet a cousin I’d never met face-to-face; Oregon to visit family and see Crater Lake and Deschutes National Forest; and the Dominican Republic to relax in Punta Cana and swim in a crystal clear lagoon at the tail end of hurricane season. That might have been slightly ill-timed, but we had fun and the weather was perfect. Until we left, and it wasn’t. We did get lashed (briefly) by some of Hurricane Melissa’s outer bands. I can only imagine, as one who lives in a hurricane-prone part of the Gulf of Mexico, the devastation in Jamaica, the Dominican Republic, Cuba, and the Bahamas. I would urge everyone to give what they can, despite challenging times, to aid in the day-to-day survival and recovery of the people in these islands. World Central Kitchen<\/a> is an excellent place to start.<\/p>\n

I didn’t write much poetry, despite (somewhat ironically) beginning my term as President of the Poetry Society of Texas<\/a> on September 1. I thought that travel would inspire me to write, but what it inspired in me was mostly a desire to take long walks outside and to be lazy in between. Maybe that’s what’s meant by “recreation”: re<\/strong>laxation + time to reflect = creation<\/strong>.<\/p>\n

From Utah, I sent poetry postcards to friends from one of my poetry writing groups.<\/p>\n

Postcards from Utah<\/h3>\n

While in Utah, I learned my limitations. I don’t like limitations. But I learned that when the hiking map says “moderate” difficulty, it’s referring to elevation gain. And 600 feet down means 600 feet up, again, at some point. That’s the Sunrise to Sunset Loop at Bryce Canyon.<\/p>\n

Never underestimate those trail ratings.<\/p>\n

Eyeballs: “Easy-peasy. Look, it’s paved, even. Mostly. Sort of. Well, packed dirt and gravel.”<\/p>\n

Me: “At least it’s not Cinder Cone.”<\/p>\n

Trail rating: Moderate. Elevation gain: 600′.<\/p>\n

Me: “That’s like, what, 6 stories?”<\/p>\n

Brain: “You want me to math? On vacation? Fuck you. Try 60.”<\/p>\n

Me: “And you’re waiting till I climbed DOWN already to tell me this? It’s 85\u00b0 out here, and I have to climb the fucking Empire State Building – with no stairs?”<\/p>\n

Brain: “Stop exaggerating. The Empire State Building is 1486 feet. This is half that. Get climbing. What goes down must come up. Remember: Cinder Cone was 813 feet and all gravel.”<\/p>\n

Me, taking this picture about 2\/3 of the way up Navajo Loop: “JJ, when you find this picture on my camera roll, send it to the kids and tell them, ‘This is where your mother died.'”<\/p>\n

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The empathetic laughter from other nearby hikers of all ages – also struggling – helped get me to the top.<\/p>\n

At Zion, we stuck to the “easy” trails. I would have liked to hike The Narrows, especially after seeing children returning from the hike. Angel Falls? Oh, no, never. I won’t ever hike Half Dome at Yosemite, either. But The Narrows would be pleasant, I think, on a hot day.<\/p>\n

Beechey Squirrel<\/strong><\/p>\n

Is it kindness to feed wildlife “snacks”? Or is it dangerous and selfish? I think most people mean well and merely want to establish a connection to those other beings we share the planet with. That connection might serve to tether us to nature, something too many of us hold ourselves separate and apart from. On the other hand, it fosters dependence in the animals who no longer have to work for their food, and carries a very real risk of spreading zoonotic disease to humans. That’s why there are signs warning of hefty fines – not to spoil the tourists’ fun, but to keep both animals and humans safe. Too many humans think they are the exception to the rule, or that “it can’t hurt, just this once.” All it takes is this once.<\/em><\/p>\n

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Spotted ground squirrel\r\nunafraid of hikers,\r\nplayful siblings\r\nsquabble, tumble as one\r\nbushy-tailed dustball.\r\nA sign warns against\r\nfeeding plague rats.\r\nThe sign, the fine, mean\r\nnothing to a kindly old man\r\nfrom half a world away as\r\nthey nibble peanuts\r\nfrom his fingers.<\/pre>\n
Parawon Gap Petroglyphs<\/strong><\/p>\n
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Old news,\r\nstories in stone,\r\nancient peoples left word\r\nfor weary travelers\r\ncoming from behind:\r\nThe roof caved in, killed many.\r\nHe pushed aside a wall,\r\nbrought many people low\r\nout from place of suffering\r\nto safety. We will make a place\r\nfor you.<\/pre>\n
Leaving a Mark<\/strong><\/p>\n
It’s human nature to want to leave a permanent mark, to say, “I was here.” This poem was inspired by my wondering why we revere ancient “graffiti,” like the stories written in petroglyphs in the Parawon Gap, but prohibit and punish leaving such a mark on a boulder or cliff, today. We build disposable buildings and fill ugly holes in the earth with our waste, but try etching your name and a date into a cliff and see how fast you wind up paying a hefty fine or spending time in jail.<\/em><\/p>\n
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Marks left by ancient ancestors\r\nrest protected, precious - yet we erase ourselves, leave no trace,\r\ndare not deface a humble rock,\r\na wall, a tree with even the tiniest proof that we\r\nwere here.<\/pre>\n
Dinosaur Tracks Recreation Area<\/strong><\/p>\n
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Just a rockfall\r\nfrom the petroglyphs\r\nfind layered rocks for climbing\r\nhere, imagine tracks of\r\ndinosaurs - a Rorshach blot\r\nof footprints frozen\r\nin time.<\/pre>\n
Cedar Breaks<\/strong><\/p>\n
Jackie’s son got the mail and mistook this one for a suicide note. It was anything but – it was my longing to go where none but the ravens could go. You can see the spot, here in this photo – a high, rock-walled rectangle that contains a few trees.<\/em><\/p>\n
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I point far below. Tell him\r\nthis is where I live now. High\r\nrock walls surround\r\na sunlit patch of sandy ground\r\ntall pines, red rocks, colorful\r\nlayers of a hundred million years.\r\nRaven laughs overhead. Thinks\r\nno, this is where you die.\r\nAlone. Silence broken by wind.\r\nStrong winds, beating wings.\r\nIf I could get there, I add. Raven\r\nlaughs again. Good luck\r\ngetting out again. And there it is:\r\nIn my next life, let me be a raven.\r\n<\/pre>\n
Anniversary Getaway<\/h3>\n
When you’ve seen mountains like these, it spoils you for smaller ones.<\/p>\n
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We spent our anniversary in Calgary and Banff. Got some tail while we were at it\u2014beavertail, that is. Wait, that doesn’t sound any better, does it? Here I am, unrepentant:<\/p>\n
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Hiking in Belgium<\/h3>\n
While we were in Belgium, I hiked in the Flemish Ardennes, where I found giants.<\/p>\n
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We visited Brussels, Antwerp, Ypres, Ghent, and Bruges. We definitely got our steps in! On the drive from Kluisbergen, a pleasant little town where we stayed most of the time, to Ypres, a comment by my husband made me a little sad. Although I love all the convenience of living in the suburbs of a big city, I prefer the woods and streams to the impermanent, often soulless, things put there for human convenience. I jotted this poem on my phone while he, no doubt, assumed I was doomscrolling on Facebook.<\/p>\n
On the A19 to Ypres<\/strong><\/p>\n
Nice bridge, he says,\r\nand there it is - the gap\r\nin how we see the world.\r\nI think the bridge a blight\r\nthat spans a river,\r\njoining land to land,\r\nto staunch its flow -\r\nan ugly, man-made stitch\r\nto bind the earth,\r\nto slow the chasm\r\nriver-wrought, so they\r\ncan stride and straddle it\r\nbelieving they are giants.<\/pre>\n
A sobering visit to the In Flanders Fields Museum<\/a> in Ypres inspired me to read more poetry from WWI. Most of us know the poem, “In Flanders Fields<\/a>” by John McCrae:<\/p>\n
In Flanders fields the poppies blow\r\nBetween the crosses, row on row,\r\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0That mark our place; and in the sky\r\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The larks, still bravely singing, fly\r\nScarce heard amid the guns below.\r\n\r\nWe are the Dead. Short days ago\r\nWe lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,\r\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Loved and were loved, and now we lie,\r\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0In Flanders fields.\r\n\r\nTake up our quarrel with the foe:\r\nTo you from failing hands we throw\r\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0The torch; be yours to hold it high.\r\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0If ye break faith with us who die\r\nWe shall not sleep, though poppies grow\r\n\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0In Flanders fields.<\/pre>\n
I read this poem now in a different tone\u2014less heroic and more naively warmongering. I have now seen what trench warfare really looked like: terrifying, claustrophobic, muddy, bloody. No one could come out unscathed. You who haven’t fought in war think you have “PTSD”? You have issues, but they can never compare to what used to be called “shell shock.” I think the poet Siegfried Sassoon captured it well and without fanfare in “Memorial Tablet (GREAT WAR)<\/a>“:<\/p>\n
SQUIRE nagged and bullied till I went to fight,         \r\n(Under Lord Derby\u2019s Scheme). I died in hell\u2014          \r\n(They called it Passchendaele). My wound was slight,       \r\nAnd I was hobbling back; and then a shell     \r\nBurst slick upon the duck-boards: so I fell\r\nInto the bottomless mud, and lost the light. \r\n\r\nAt sermon-time, while Squire is in his pew,  \r\nHe gives my gilded name a thoughtful stare:\r\nFor, though low down upon the list, I\u2019m there;        \r\n\u2018In proud and glorious memory\u2019 \u2026 that\u2019s my due.   \r\nTwo bleeding years I fought in France, for Squire:  \r\nI suffered anguish that he\u2019s never guessed.  \r\n\r\nOnce I came home on leave: and then went west\u2026           \r\nWhat greater glory could a man desire?<\/pre>\n
This line appears on a wall in the museum, not far from McRae’s more well-known poem:<\/p>\n
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I died in hell\u2014          \r\n(They called it Passchendaele)<\/pre>\n<\/blockquote>\n
Watch the movie 1917 a few times and you might begin to get a sense of the horror, but just the merest, safest, comfiest sense <\/em>of it. I would like very much never <\/em>to have occasion to write a first-hand war poem, though WWI seems to have inspired quite a lot of poetry in those who experienced it. I spoke with someone online, for a while, who claimed to be a soldier in Ukraine. I think most of the messages were written by AI and I’m about 98% sure it was a scammer, but that doesn’t invalidate one of the points they made – that poetry doesn’t have to be angry or activist, doesn’t have to call out injustice and what we’re fighting against<\/em>. It is, perhaps, just as important\u2014maybe moreso\u2014for poetry to remind us what’s worth fighting for<\/em>. <\/p>\n
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My husband and I spent a few days in Amsterdam, enjoying freshly-made Stroopwafels, chocolates, cheeses, excellent food, and windmills.<\/p>\n
Pittsburgh?? Why Would You – OK, on Two Conditions<\/h3>\n
My husband has always wanted to go to Pittsburgh. Don’t laugh; it’s actually a lot nicer than I remembered it. Still, it’s…Pittsburgh! So for years, I balked. Finally, I relented, on two conditions: First, that we take a train around Horseshoe Curve, and second, that we stop in Hershey for chocolate and for me to make a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup as big as my head. Bonus: I got to meet my cousin Amy for the first time. Second bonus: We spent a couple of days in Philadelphia. It’s not hard to talk me into visiting any place that has history<\/strong>.<\/p>\n
My Husband Takes Me to the Best Volcanoes<\/h3>\n
When we got to Portland, it was afternoon and we had a long drive to make it to Crater Lake before dark. We made it, but it was cold, rainy, and foggy. We only got the tiniest hint of the breathtaking beauty that was to come. The next day was partly cloudy, with stunning moments of sunshine that let us see the whole of Crater Lake. We found a little secluded picnic area and enjoyed the sandwiches we’d bought that morning. Until a pesky bee started bothering us. I shooed it off. It returned, moments later, with a friend. The friend brought more friends. We took that as a sign that it was time to move on.<\/p>\n
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We stayed in Bend, OR. If I lived in Bend, I would go to the river and learn to surf. The gardens, trails, and parks are gorgeous. After exploring a few and getting our steps in, we enjoyed good food and rest. The last day, we hiked the lava fields before returning to Portland to visit family.<\/p>\n
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By now, friends are playing the “Where’s Holly?” version of “Where’s Waldo?” or “Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?”<\/p>\n
Relaxing in the Dominican Republic<\/h3>\n
Would you travel to an island while a hurricane meandered off the coast, undecided as to where and when to turn? We had the Westin Puntacana almost to ourselves. The weather was perfect and perfectly tropical\u2014warm, breezy, and sunny in the mornings with windy rain and thunderstorms in the afternoon that cleared in time for dinner and did not resume until we were safely ensconced in our room for the night.<\/p>\n
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The hurricane did not make its devastating turn until we were back home, and spared the easternmost side of the Dominican Republic, where we were, most of its destruction.<\/p>\n
Melissa Comes to the Islands<\/strong><\/p>\n
Sunshowers and summer\r\nlassitude, language languishing,\r\nlazy. Heat-sapped mind-drift,\r\nsargasso thoughts floating limp,\r\nlanguishing with humidity. Brain bobbing\r\ngently bouyed on throbbing waves\r\nfrom distant storm-swept seas,\r\nsandy shores. Palm-frond fingers frolic\r\non a breeze, click frantic warnings\r\nas wind\u2014dawn's waking whisper\u2014\r\nroars in with thunder, slides down\r\ndark mountains, bearing an ocean sizzling\r\nelectric with lightning, lashing rain.<\/pre>\n
So I’m back, now. No big trips planned for the remainder of the year. The next little trip will be a weekend in Dallas for Poets in a Pumpkin Patch, the Poetry Society of Texas Annual Awards Banquet (luncheon, no ballgowns or tuxes required!). I’m told I’ve won a First Place prize in one or more of the 100 categories of the annual contest, which is exciting – it’ll be a first, and means those poems will be published in our annual anthology, A Book of the Year<\/em>.<\/p>\n
Speaking of Anthologies…<\/h2>\n
The latest anthology of short stories from the award-winning Pen & Keyboard Writers<\/a> is now available for purchase from Amazon or Barnes & Noble online:<\/p>\n