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Janice Norman
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Dear All Souls Book Group,
I just wanted to let everyone know that Janice Norman died
yesterday, Monday, May 10, at 10:30 in the morning. Suzanne Bowers, a
long time friend of Janice's, was at the book group meeting last night
and told us about Janice's last days and hours, which sounded peaceful,
even creative. Many thanks to Suzanne for sharing so generously her
experience of Janice.
When I find an obituary or any other information
about Janice, I will send it along.
Below are three
poems. The first is by Rumi, translated by Robert Bly. It was read to
us by Sarah Larson at the beginning of last night's meeting. Thank you,
Sarah. And the next two poems are by Jane Kenyon and Louise Bogan.
All best,
Emilie
The Name
You should try to hear the name the Holy One has
for things.
There is something in the
phrase: "The Holy One has taught him names."
We name everything according to the number of legs it has;
the other one names it according to what is
inside.
Moses waved his stick; he thought
it was a "rod"
but inside its name was
"dragonish snake'.
We thought the name of
Blake was "agitator against priests",
but
in eternity his name is "the one who believes."
No one knows our name until our last breath goes
out.
--RUMI (1207 - 1273), translated by Robert Bly
Peonies at
Dusk
White peonies blooming along the porch
send out light
while
the rest of the yard grows dim.
Outrageous
flowers as big as human
heads! They're
staggered
by their own luxuriance: I had
to prop them up with stakes and twine.
The moist air intensifies their scent,
and the moon moves around the barn
to
find out what it's coming from.
In the darkening
June evening
I draw a blossom near, and
bending close
search it as a woman
searches
a loved one's face.
--JANE KENYON (1947 - 1995)
From Heine
Der Tod, das ist die kühle Nacht . . .
Death is the
tranquil night.
Life is the sultry day.
It darkens; I will sleep now;
The light has made me weary.
Over my bed
rises a tree
Wherein sings the young
nightingale.
It sings of constant love.
Even in this dream I hear it.
--LOUISE BOGAN
(1898 - 1970)
