The joyful visuals at 3:09 minutes in, when Hugh Masekela puts down the flugelhorn and picks up the tambourine are hard to beat. Thank you filmmakers. Thank you Hugh and Larry.
And then this live 1965 version? Whoa. What he dishes up beginning at 1:07 is some South African mustard sauce!
an early June morning in early June, we, having already gone out to breakfast, pop into the red Toyota Tercel and breeze down the hill by Lake Cayuga to the farmers' market, so bright, so clear, rows and rows of cars and stalls and, beyond, boats docked calm on the glassy inlet: the people look a little ruffled, like yards trying to come out of icebound winters into springs, the old stalks still there, the space of the new stuff not filled out: affliction here, where the heavy woman, heavier than last fall, leans over to swish one knock-knee past (check that rhyme) the other; affliction there, where the wobble-legged man leans over into his arm crutches, a four-legged progression: aging women, drooped breasts under loose T-shirts, hair making a virtue of snow-white or veering off into an original expression of blue: toothless, big-bellied, bald, broad-rumped, deaf: the afflicted, hurts hurting but less than they hurt at home or, if hurting more, with some compensation: one absolutely lovely person, perhaps: the radiance of some babies' faces, the perfect interest of some boy in mud puddles: and this is all under the aspect of eternity, soon to be: but listen to the good-mornings and how've-you-beens and were-you-away-any-of-the-winters, along with the hanging baskets of fuchsia, purple and red and streaked white, tuberous begonias with the freshest colors alive, bread, and stall after stall of vegetables, goat cheese, honey, coffee plus a live minnequin who is moved to thank you by coins and bills dropped in a hat: this is we at our best, not killing, scheming, abusing, running over, tearing down, burning up: why did invention ever bother with all this, why does the huge beech by the water come back every year: oh, the sweet pleasures, or even the hope of sweet pleasures, the kiss, the letter from someone, the word of sympathy or praise, or just the shared settled look between us, that here we are together, such as it is, cautious and courageous, wily with genuine desire, policed by how we behave, all out of eternity, into eternity, but here now, where we make the most of it: I settle down: I who could have used the world share a crumb: I who wanted the sky fall to the glint in a passing eye: the crack in the dome of knowledge, the aperture, so to say, poetically speaking, into faith is, of course, as everyone knows, the magical exception to the naturalistic rule: derivations (pharma- cological?) from nature do what they can, usually with terrible side effects or with disjunctivitis with othe rdrugs (with, with) but one exception as in rising in a fiery go-cart is lustfully believed to overturn, or else to bouy, all naturalism, by which is intended to be meant sense, common and unusual varieties, science, knowledge, craft: there is a web-worm falls sometimes aslant the honeysuckle hedge in spring breeze or other dislocation and finds itself asquirm dangerously dangled in the open air (I've seen hornets trim those babies right out of the air): this one I paused to view was wrestling up the single thread of web, nipping and tucking, reaching up for a hold on the tight and bringing itself up till the bit length could be added to the tiny cotton ball gathered at its head: but this is mere mechanics: down its back was a purplish streak exactly the color of honeysucklebushlimbstems, the top part (buds) of the stems: his feet, his laterals, were exactly the color of the lateralhoneysucklebush limbstems: while this waits explanation, I hold it a sufficient miracle, on which, tho, I posit no faith of a kind but faith of another kind: that is, maybe some spooky agency does manage all: we're attracted to stars not because they're confessional but because of the roles they create into play; we're attracted to pretend, not fact, first: then, the clothing of creativity about the person attracts us to his sins: we are awed and want the clay feet to stop walking over us: also we want better to understand how to reach this creativity's sinfulness ourselves so why can't poets speak in tongues, others than their own; is truth in the fact or in the ppersuasion, in the credible action or the flat statement: I don't care whether anybody believes me or not: I don't know anything I want anybody to believe or in: but if you will sit with me in the light of speech, I will sit with you: I would rather do this than eat your ice cream, go to a movie, hump a horse, measure a suit, suit a measure: I would at my age rather do this than skateboard, but I can think of nothing I'd rather do than think of skateboard loops out of skateboard bowls, the various designs in the momenta: the rising up in rounds over the rims. A.R. Ammons (1993) From his book "Garbage"
Speaks for itself with a wonderful argument being made beginning at 1:30.
by Adam ZagajewskiThrough the meadow and hedgerow, village and forest, cavalries on the march, infantries on the march, horses and cannons, old soldiers, young soldiers, children, wiry wolfhounds at full gallop, a blizzard of feathers, sleds, Black Marias, carriages, taxis, even the old cars called Moskwitch come roaring in, and warships and rafts and pontoon bridges roar in, and barges, steamships, canoes (some of which sink), barrage balloons, missiles, bombers, howitzer shells whistling arias from an opera, the shriek of flagellants and the growl of commands, songs slashing the air with notes made of steel, yurts and tents break camp, ropes tighten, Messengers, painting, die as they run, cables rush out, candles burning with quick crimson flames, colonels dozing in carriages faster than light, popes piously murmuring blessings, even the moon is along on that hard, iron march. Tanks, sabers, ropes, Katyusha shells whirring like comets, fifes and drums exploding the air, clubs crunching, the heaving decks of ferries and of invasions sigh, sway, the sons of the steppes on the march, Moslems, condemned prisoners, lovers of Byron, gamblers, the whole progeny of Asia with Suvorov in the lead limps in with a train of fawning courtiers who dance; the yellow Volga runs in, Siberian rivers chanting, camels pensively plod, bringing the sands of the desert and humid mirages, the fold-eyed Kirghizes marching in step, the black pupils of the God of the Urals, and behind them schoolteachers and languages straggle, and behind them old manor houses skate in like gliders, and German doctors with dressings and plasters; the wounded with their alabaster faces, regiments and divisions, cavalries, infantries, on the march, Russia comes into Poland, tearing cobwebs, leaves, silk ribbons, ligaments and frontiers, breaking treaties, bridges, alliances, threads, ties, clotheslines with wet washing still waving, gates, arteries, bandages and conjunctions, future and hope; Russia comes in, marching into a hamlet on the Pilica, into the deep Mazovia forests, rending posters and parliaments, trampling roads, footbridges, paths, streams. Russia comes into the eighteenth century, into October, September, laughter and tears, into conscience, into the concentration of the student, the calm silence of the warm bricks of a wall, comes into the fragrance of meadows, herbs, the tangled paths of the forest, trampling the pansy, the wild rose, hoofprints in the moss, tractor and tank prints in the soft moss, it overturns chimneys, tree trunks, palaces, turn off lights, makes great bonfires out in the formal garden, stains the clear spring, razes the library, church, town hall, flooding its scarlet banners through the sky, Russia comes into my life, Russia comes into my thought, Russia comes into my poetry.
Translated by Renata Gorczynski, Benjamin Ivry, and C.K. Williams Purchase "Without End" by Adam Zagajewski and the translators
by Adam Zagajewski
I was born in a city of wild cherries
and hard-seeded sunflowers (common wisdom
had it halfway from the West
to the East). Globes stained by verdigris
kept careless vigil.
Might only the absence of presence be perfect?
Presence, after all, infected with the original
sin of existence, is excessive, savage,
Oriental, superb, while beauty, like a fruit knife,
snips its bit of plentitude off.
Life accumulates through generations
as in a pond; it doesn’t vanish
with its moment but turns
airy and dry. I think
of a half-conscious prayer, the chapped lips
of a boy at his first confession,
the wooden step creaking
under his knees.
At night, autumn arrives
for the harvest, yellow, ripe for flame.
There are, I know, not one
but at least four realities,
like the Gospels.
I know I’m alone, but linked
firmly to you, painfully, gladly.
I know only the mysteries are immortal.
Translated by Renata Gorczynski, Benjamin Ivry, and C.K. Williams