Some words of wisdom from Piet Hein

Piet Hein was a Danish mathematician, inventor, designer, and poet who was born in Copenhagen in 1905. He died at the age of 90. We were recently at a flow cytometry conference in Copenhagen, and written on one of the walls of our hotel room was one of Hein's short poems, entitled:

Det må vi efterligne (Kulturkritisk)

Kultur er evnen
til at leve livet,
så ny og ægte
livsform leves frem.
Den evne var
de store gamle givet
av hvilken grund
vi efterligner dem.


My translation from Danish into English; I hope that I have gotten the gist of the poem:

We must imitate (culture critical)

Culture is the ability
to live life,
so that new and genuine
life forms are created.
That ability was
the gift of the great old ones
and is the reason
we imitate them.
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A new poem--Photo of you in a Manhattan café

This is a new poem that I wrote on the second anniversary of my brother's death. It is part of a new volume of poems that I am working on, in addition to my book about Tarrytown that I hope to be finished with this year. 

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Photo of you in a Manhattan café  

And on this day, the second anniversary

Of your untimely death

A long-buried photo of you surfaced

Causing me to catch my breath

We had met for lunch in some downtown Manhattan café

That you frequented—eager to share with me your find

Proud that you were working there in that melee

Of New Yorkers milling about with their own kind

The contours of your face, your photogenic smile

Your youth that emanates from a decade ago

Your furtive smile, the one that could beguile

And persuade the most stubborn of us so

Your hidden secrets that remained unearthed

You did not give them willingly away

And those of us who tried to probe and came away

Unenlightened frustrated rather gone astray

If walls could talk, and photos likewise

Perhaps you would still walk upon this earth

And smile your stealthy smile for all to know

That happiness was yours, there was no dearth

copyright 2017 All rights reserved

Paula M. De Angelis 

Second anniversary

The second anniversary of my brother’s death is approaching, and I have been aware of its approach for well over a month now. My anxiety levels are heightened; the memory of that day at work when I received the news that he had passed away will live forever in my mind and heart. I have no idea how parents who lose their children feel, just that I know it is probably an indescribable feeling, one that stays with you for the rest of your life. It does not feel right or normal (in the natural way of things) to lose your sibling at the age of fifty-four. Nevertheless, when I look around me and talk to others, I see that it is far more frequent than one would like to admit. I have friends who have lost their siblings to cancer and to other illnesses.

But the anxiety is also connected to my own heightened awareness of time passing. There is no question in my mind now that I will spend the rest of my life writing. Each day, each week, each month is the continual quest to find time, more time, and even more time—to write. And the more I want the time and the more I want to write, the less time is given me. Work duties pile up, there are suddenly more students to guide, a new technician to plan work together with, and a new article to write about a very interesting topic—DNA repair in inflammatory bowel disease and colorectal cancer. Do I mind? No. But the little voice inside of me is always talking to me, telling me to write and to find the time to write. It doesn’t help that getting older involves getting tired much earlier in the evening than before. I used to guard the three or four hours after dinner and before I went to bed very carefully; I was selfish with my time. Now those hours have been reduced to maybe two good writing hours, because I am more tired. And so it goes.

Do I regret choosing a research career over a literary one? It may seem that way to you, my readers, at times. But no, I don’t. I’ve realized that my creative energy went into something really amazing—the opportunity to hypothesize and to test my hypotheses, and some few times the results led to some really good publications, articles that I’m proud of. Research science in its purest form is a truly creative endeavor. So I am glad that I was able to engage in this type of work activity for so long. But that hasn’t stopped me from wanting to write and from actually writing--poetry, short stories, novels and other types of literature. I’ve been writing since I was fourteen years old. But it is poetry that is closest to my heart, closest to describing the person I really am. I have published four volumes of poetry, and am currently working on a fifth, which will be a volume of poems having to do with death, mortality, and grief. It derives its inspiration from my brother’s death, and some of the poems are about him and about coming to terms with the loss of a man I truly loved, despite what life threw at us over the years. His life was far from easy; I know that now. He shared very little of what really transpired in his life during the last five years of his life. I don’t know why, and that reality will haunt me forever. I think he wanted me to read between the lines, and I just wasn’t on that page together with him. So his death has taught me to be more silent, to listen more, and to try to understand the road that each individual person I know is on. Each person’s journey toward the end of life is a different one, even though we all end at the same place. 

I've also had the unique pleasure of discovering a new young writer, the daughter of a friend here in Norway. My friend had told her daughter that I write poetry and that I have published some books. Her daughter, who is nineteen years old, has just written her first book about her teenage struggle with anorexia, and wondered if I would like to read it and comment on it. I have read it, and it is an impressive first book. While the topic will not appeal to all readers, I can truthfully say that she has written a gripping and realistic book about an illness that is nearly impossible to cure, and has done so using notes and journals that she has kept since she was fifteen. When I talk to her, I remember my own teenage years, some of the influences that started me writing, and the need to write. Unless you have experienced that need, you will not understand it. It is a psychological need that spills over into the physical realm; the need to write is something that rides you, doesn’t leave you alone, causes anxiety, spurs you on, needles you, taunts you when you are lazy, and criticizes you when you let yourself be distracted. It keeps you on target, keeps you focused on the goal. If you don’t pay attention to it, it will lead to sleepless nights, distracted unfocused days, irritability, depression and anxiety. My friend’s daughter understands this already at nineteen years of age. So that is why I cannot say that my current anxiety is coupled only to the second anniversary of my brother’s death. It is coupled to the need to write and to the barriers that stand in the way of doing so. Because my brother’s death, like the need to write, are reminders that time is passing, that life is short, and that time is not be wasted. Time is a gift that is given to us, and we have to use it wisely.

A beautiful poem for spring by Robert Frost

A Prayer in Spring

Oh, give us pleasure in the flowers to-day;
And give us not to think so far away
As the uncertain harvest; keep us here
All simply in the springing of the year.

Oh, give us pleasure in the orchard white,
Like nothing else by day, like ghosts by night;
And make us happy in the happy bees,
The swarm dilating round the perfect trees.

And make us happy in the darting bird
That suddenly above the bees is heard,
The meteor that thrusts in with needle bill,
And off a blossom in mid air stands still.

For this is love and nothing else is love,
The which it is reserved for God above
To sanctify to what far ends He will,
But which it only needs that we fulfil.

The wisdom of Mary Oliver

Mary Oliver intrigues me with her simple wisdom that goes right to the heart of things. She writes about the things that matter in life. There is no way that you can read her words without being affected by them, without some part of you knowing that you've been touched by the truth. And having been touched by the truth, that you know that you must abide by it. Here are some of her words of wisdom in the form of quotes and poems........

·         Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

·         Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness. It took me years to understand that this too, was a gift.

·         Instructions for living a life.

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

·         Listen--are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?

•   To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.

·         Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

·         The most regretful people on earth are those who felt the call to creative work, who felt their own creative power restive and uprising, and gave to it neither power nor time.

·         You can have the other words-chance, luck, coincidence, serendipity. I'll take grace. I don't know what it is exactly, but I'll take it.

·         Still, what I want in my life

is to be willing

to be dazzled—

to cast aside the weight of facts

and maybe even

to float a little

above this difficult world.

·         to live in this world

you must be able

to do three things

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go

·         When it's over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it is over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,

or full of argument.

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

One of those poems that you just recognize intuitively as truth

The Journey

by Mary Oliver


One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice – - -
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
‘Mend my life!’
each voice cried.
But you didn’t stop.

You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations – - -
though their melancholy
was terrible.It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.

But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice,
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do – - – determined to save
the only life you could save.

The poem Funeral Blues, by WH Auden

A good friend sent me this poem recently because he had been watching the film Four Weddings and a Funeral, and this is the poem that is recited during the funeral service in that film. He also knows that I like Auden's poetry, as did my father. There have been so many artists and musicians who have died recently, but today is also the one-year anniversary of my brother's death. I know there are others reading this who will understand the feelings expressed in this poem. 

Funeral Blues

Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message 'He is Dead'.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.

New ventures and new roads

It is often said that ‘truth is stranger than fiction’, and the events of the past seven months in my life can truly attest to that. I will not go into details except to say that much of what has transpired is connected to my brother’s untimely death in February. I have decided to turn reality into fiction and see where that takes me. My premise is that it is better to write it down than to hold onto the swirling and sometimes negative emotions that will only burden my heart and soul for the rest of my life. So I am embarking on yet another literary venture. My friends who know me, know what has transpired, and I am sure that they will support this endeavor rather than the (seemingly insurmountable) alternatives that will only cause more problems.

I continue to write this blog and to share my poetry and photography with you, as well as my reflections about modern workplaces and workplace behavior. For some of my readers, it may seem that I cannot decide on one focused theme for the blog. That may be so. This is not a fashion blog, or a movie blog, a science blog or even a workplace blog; it is a daily life blog. I share my life as I experience it, a New Yorker in a foreign culture. Norwegian culture (ways of looking at and doing things in personal and work arenas) remains somewhat foreign to me even after twenty-five years of living and working here. Norway has changed a lot in that time, as has the USA. Workplaces are now global arenas that have their unwritten rules based on the culture in which they do business, but are also the product of modern workplace theories that are adopted worldwide. In that vein, I had to laugh yesterday when my husband sent me an email with information about a new course offered by the university here to employees who are new to Norway and who are struggling to understand their workplaces. The course will describe what it means to work in Norway with Norwegians, and will teach attendees about ‘both the formal code of conduct and the unwritten rules of working in Norway. The Norwegian workplace culture has important elements that are not found in most other western countries, and this may cause misunderstandings and frustration’ (direct citation from the course offering). You could have taken the words right out of my mouth. I could have used this kind of course twenty-five years ago. But since there were few to no foreigners in my workplace at that time, this type of course would never have seen the light of day. I struggled along on my own, with explanations for certain aspects of Norwegian workplace culture from my husband and some caring colleagues who have remained good friends. Along the way I developed a thick skin and a sense of humor, as well as the ability to let go of irritations. Had I not, I would have become frustrated and angry and stayed that way; American and Norwegian workplace cultures are that different. It is no accident that many of the new (young) foreign employees that start working in my workplace find their way to my office after a few months. Many of them knock on my door to ask me about some procedure that they’ve heard I know a lot about, but what they really want is to chat and to release some of their frustrations about what they experience here. We talk and sometimes I offer advice, but mostly I listen. Because I’ve been there, and I survived. My office mate (a non-Norwegian) calls me his role model. I understand what he means.

Back to my blog. I’ve decided that in some future posts, I will be sharing some of the short stories that I’ve been working on, with you. It will be interesting to find out what you think and feel about them. It may be a new road for the blog, and I’ll be interested to see where it takes me.

A new poem for my brother

Moving on

Seven months have come and gone

Months you did not get to see

All the life that once was yours

Weeks gone by, life moved on

Thinking of you, not forgotten

But then there are those sudden thoughts

A hand grips tightly round my heart

Is life’s struggle all for naught?

Were your life and death in vain?

So unfair, your early exit

Left behind uncertain fates

And sad hearts that know of pain

Seven months have come and gone

Those in your life move on without you

I see you in my mind’s eye alone

I wish I could have protected you

copyright 2015

Paula M. De Angelis

A new poem--Summer

Summer

Days of puffy clouds

Spread out upon a sunlit blue canvas

Cycling along a country road

Scent of cinnamon from the meadow plants

Along the roadside.

Days of happiness

Spent in summer’s sunshine

Carefree days and long nights

Birds calling to each other young and old

In the trees outside the window.

Days of green grass and leafy trees

A harmony of colors rich and light

The scent of roses and of lilacs

And honeysuckle that grows wild

Untended bushes of perfume.

Days of voluminous gray clouds

Portend the thunderstorms in wait

Misty rain upon the parched plants

Ominous the sound of distant thunder

That brings the cooling rain.

Never quite so happy as in summer

Days of green of peace of sun of light

Days of meaning from doing little more

Than contemplating nature

And the life around us. 

-----------------------------

copyright Paula M. De Angelis

July 2015

The poem Quantum Bloom from my poetry collection Quantum Bloom

My sister loves this poem, so I decided to share it with you. It is from my recently-published collection of poems--Quantum Bloom (http://www.amazon.com/Quantum-Bloom-Paula-Mary-Angelis/dp/1505211166). The poem was inspired by a photo I saw on Facebook of a tree stump crying (someone had drawn the tears on the stump). But it made a lasting impression on me, as well as making me sad. It got me to thinking how many trees are cut down for no reason at all, other than that a house owner wanted less shade and more sun, so the tree had to go. That happens a lot here in Oslo, unfortunately. Perhaps other places as well. The older I get, the more respect I have for the nature around us, and the more I appreciate trees, the birds that live in them, and the rest of nature. We take nature for granted, that it will always be there for us. But one day it may not be. And we will look back in regret that we did not take better care of our earth. 

Quantum bloom

A lone tree stump

Pushing its way up from the pavement

The sidewalk askew

A tree’s life ended

Because its desire to spread its roots

Was not met with understanding

But rather with a need for control

Executed through the mighty saw

A lone tree’s life ended

In this universe

But perhaps the same tree lives on

In another universe

A parallel one

Or even in multiple worlds

Far less controlling places

Where trees can spread their roots

Where their desire to bloom and grow

Is not met with the inhabitants’ desires

To crimp and to control

Lone tree standing

Firm and tall

Against the elements

Against the winds, the storms,

Against man’s non-understanding

Of what it takes to grow a tree

Of what a tree needs to call a place

Its home

Of what the birds need in the way of home

When in search of cover

In parallel universes

Perhaps trees are sovereign, supreme

Birds too

Perhaps man’s punishment for meting out death

To trees and likewise birds

Is to suffer the understanding of what it means

To destroy life

While imprisoned in a forever place of death

In multiple universes

copyright 2014  Paula M. De Angelis 

A poem by Joy Davidman

Waltzing Mouse               

Impaled I was when I was born,

Caught upon time’s nether horn,

Murdered through and through with birth,                                                                

Cankered with corrupted earth …

Slick between my fingers run

Sands of time from sun to sun,

Grains of hunger and delight,

Diapered with dark and bright;

Kisses and confusions pass

Dribbling through the fat hourglass ….

And I skip from minute to minute

Each one with me buried in it,

And I see my bridges burn

Gold behind me as I turn,

And I see my painful track

Blotted out behind my back

Till I die as I was born,

Slain upon time’s other horn.

-----------------

written by Joy Davidman

Quantum Bloom published

A nice update--my fourth collection of poetry entitled Quantum Bloom was published yesterday and is available on Amazon at: 

http://www.amazon.com/Quantum-Bloom-Paula-Mary-Angelis/dp/1505211166

Quantum Bloom--my new poetry collection

I am very close to publishing my fourth volume of poetry entitled Quantum Bloom. I just need to check the proof book to make sure that we're good to go, and then it will be published and available for sale on Amazon.

This is the book cover (a fractal flower) for those of you who might be interested in seeing it. I'm pleased with how it looks.

A poem about death

My brother passed away suddenly this past weekend. He was fifty-four--too young to leave us. I will always remember him as my friend from our teenage days, when we had long talks about life and love and finding our way in the world. He and I used to bike a lot, and he went on to become a triathlete who competed in a lot of triathlons. My mother and I used to attend some of them, and we marveled at the positive spirit that the athletes had. He was also an avid fisherman in his youth, something that he did not pursue into his adult life, unfortunately. He worked on Wall Street and in the corporate world after college, but was never really happy in it. Later on he married and had a family; his two children were the apples of his eye. He loved his children and they loved him. That was always so clear whenever we were together. Unfortunately, life deals out bad luck at times, and he and his family had their share of it during the past few years. He always remained upbeat despite the problems, but I think the stress just did him in at the end. He will always be in my mind and heart. And I will carry the happy memories of being together with him and his family for always. 

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Do Not Stand At My Grave And Weep

by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep

I am not there; I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow,

I am the diamond glints on snow,

I am the sun on ripened grain,

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush

I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.

I am the soft stars that shine at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there; I did not die.

A beautiful poem by Wallace Stevens

Apropos my previous post--a visitor outside my office window that just happened to be a lovely blackbird--I am posting one of my favorite poems about blackbirds, by Wallace Stevens. I am sure you will enjoy it as much as I do. 

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

I

Among twenty snowy mountains,

The only moving thing

Was the eye of the blackbird.

II

I was of three minds,

Like a tree

In which there are three blackbirds.

III

The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.

It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV

A man and a woman

Are one.

A man and a woman and a blackbird

Are one.

V

I do not know which to prefer,

The beauty of inflections

Or the beauty of innuendoes,

The blackbird whistling

Or just after.

VI

Icicles filled the long window

With barbaric glass.

The shadow of the blackbird

Crossed it, to and fro.

The mood

Traced in the shadow

An indecipherable cause.

VII

O thin men of Haddam,

Why do you imagine golden birds?

Do you not see how the blackbird

Walks around the feet

Of the women about you?

VIII

I know noble accents

And lucid, inescapable rhythms;

But I know, too,

That the blackbird is involved

In what I know.

IX

When the blackbird flew out of sight,

It marked the edge

Of one of many circles.

X

At the sight of blackbirds

Flying in a green light,

Even the bawds of euphony

Would cry out sharply.

XI

He rode over Connecticut

In a glass coach.

Once, a fear pierced him,

In that he mistook

The shadow of his equipage

For blackbirds.

XII

The river is moving.

The blackbird must be flying.

XIII

It was evening all afternoon.

It was snowing

And it was going to snow.

The blackbird sat

In the cedar-limbs.

A Christmas poem by Clement Clarke Moore

I should have posted this on Christmas eve, but no matter, I'm posting it now--a Christmas poem my father used to enjoy reading to us as children, and one we enjoyed listening to. I appreciate the vivid imagery and the rhythm in the poem.
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Twas the Night before Christmas      by Clement Clarke Moore  

Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.

And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.

When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,

But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver, so lively and quick,

I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!

"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet! On, Cupid! on Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!

Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With the sleigh full of Toys, and St Nicholas too.

And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head, and was turning around,

Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.

His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly,

That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"

Press release for One Hundred Haikus for Modern Workplaces

And if you'd like to see the actual press release on PRWeb.com, here is the link: http://www.prweb.com/releases/2014/10/prweb12287136.htm#.VFZOyqUxgM0.email

Update October 2014: One Hundred Haikus for Modern Workplaces

October is drawing to a close, and November is soon upon us. I've been busy with different projects, among them finishing up a collection of haiku poems that is now available as a Kindle edition on Amazon. This collection is entitled One Hundred Haikus for Modern Workplaces. It's a short collection that deals with workplace behaviors, bureaucracy, leadership, politics and trends, each summed up in short poems called haikus, which are three-line poems consisting of seventeen syllables--first line five syllables, second line seven syllables, and third line five syllables. It was quite enjoyable to write them, and the strict format actually helped to make each idea more concrete and focused. This collection does not cost much, just a couple of dollars, and can be downloaded to a Kindle or an iPad. I hope you will take a moment to check it out. You can find it here:
http://tinyurl.com/lkm6po4. 

Thanks!

Here is the book cover:

As it was so is it now (a new poem)

Sunday morning, windows open

Smell of bacon in the chilly air

From some unknown apartment

Down the street

Indoors the aroma of coffee brewing

Waking up to breakfast in the city we call home

Now but in any number of others

Morning routines much the same

Small things like these

Smells that trigger glimpses of a life lived

Reaching out my hand, still half-asleep,

To touch the yesteryear of memory

Remember back to an autumn morning

A Sunday many years ago another city

Espresso in a tiny pot and fresh bread for breakfast

From the organic deli on the corner

Wandering those city streets in peace

From sandy shore to colorful center

A latticework of travels

In our quest to feel that city’s heartbeat

Outside the trees' autumn colors

Grace the gray backdrop of sky

Wan sun has finally risen

But has overslept like we have

--------------------------------

Copyright 2014

Paula M. De Angelis