OLD JOY
Category Archives: BERNARD
Poem from Christopher Bernard
W. E. S. Owen: Sambre-Oise Canal, November 4, 1918
Afterward—little spring become prattling rill
grown rushing stream through the Shropshire meadows,
flower-dappled, by damp shade trees
and fragrant fields littered with picnic laughter,
brotherly sniping, early loves, later loving, faith
won, and lost, then won again, and then lost again—
until it stepped into the garish sun
above an annihilated plain,
and the cool water filled with the casings
of spent shells and the crimson tunics
of lost boys and the stench of war,
the purer air rent with shouting
and the drunken symphony of the guns—
after the warm and witty words flowing
from a young man scratching over his knapsack
by candlelight or gaslight
or a glow of Vereys and flares—
after the warm life and the flowing life and the life-like seas of words
opening on that other life that always happens elsewhere—
the single bullet riving the early morning air
on the bank of the canal where all of that stream was flowing—
the stop of it all, in the mud, like a hammer.
A stunned silence in the throbbing of the guns.
An unbelief in a no choice but to believe.
So it—now man, young or old, no longer—falls—
like Nineveh, Ur, and rich Babylon—
back into the darkness,
a face fading into the waters of an infinite silence:
it was.
Christopher Bernard reviews Sasha Waltz and Guests’ performance of Korper at UC Berkeley’s Zellerbach Hall
THE PERILS OF THE FLESH
Körper
Sasha Waltz & Guests
Zellerbach Hall
Berkeley, California
As part of their much-welcome “Women’s Work” series, Cal Performances recently brought Sasha Waltz & Guests’ provocative dance “Körper” to Berkeley. “Women’s Work,” the latest instalment (titled with definite tongue in cheek) in the “Berkeley RADICAL” series, brings a much-needed corrective to what has too often been a male-dominated world.
As an unapologetic straight white Eurocentric male myself (to put my cards smartly on the table), I applaud, and cheer, the impulse behind this. The modern world has been over-driven by testosterone since the Enlightenment and the Industrial Revolution and the autocratic isms that have followed, beginning not least with capitalism, and has left us careening toward an Armageddon of our own making. More than ever before, the world needs a woman’s touch – the deep generosity of woman’s concern for the vulnerable, for others besides themselves; an essentialism that I suspect not even the most deep-dyed feminist will deny, at least privately. What bothers me about feminism, however, is that it too often has bought into the masculinist, and hubristic, assumptions of liberalism, voluntarism, individualism, modernity and the Enlightenment project, and by doing so merely has strengthened the chains that bind us all. Some feminists do not seem to realize that their liberation – and our salvation – requires that we overcome, and replace, modernity itself. Otherwise it will not be merely our souls that are lost.
Christopher Bernard reviews Mark Morris Dance Troupe’s Pepperland
IN THE SKY WITH DIAMONDS
Pepperland
Mark Morris Dance Group
Zellerbach Hall
Berkeley, California
A review by Christopher Bernard
Eat your heart out, atheists: there is a god, and his name is Mark Morris.
To prove his divinity once again (though what god needs to prove his divinity? I should say: to display it to us hapless mortals), he brought his company of angels, fallen and otherwise, to Berkeley over the last weekend in September to ravish mere humanity with an hour-long dance based on one of the most inspired and exuberant and original and humane of all albums of popular music—the Beatles’ seminal (for once, the word is apt) contribution to what few virtues we have left in our world today: Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band.
It is almost embarrassing to salute so fulsomely a work of such wit, humor, graciousness, humanity, and eternal youthfulness. It stands uneasily on its pedestal, threatening at any moment to throw itself onto a 60’s dancefloor and show the rest of us how it is actually done.
Continue reading
Poetry from Christopher Bernard
Spring Symphony
By Christopher Bernard
Spring: Oh! Hear my call, oh world, my home!
The World: We hear your call! The traveler’s home!
O Spring, rejoice us now!
The winter’s brutal winds have gone:
The storm
Has wrecked
Its last
Redoubt.
The birds are flying from the south.
They perch gravely on the fence;
Appraising bush and tree, they scout
A place to nest far from the cat
That watches from the windowsill.
Through the crust of snow and ice
That kept asleep her summer dream,
Earth’s eyes awake
As the sun perks up the daffodil
And turns the eyes of all to him
Until the universe itself
Beyond even his sovereignty
Breaks into music by a German old
In love with his Clara, his life, his earth
For a season; till
The trees uproot,
And the canyons wake
From their cold trance,
And the bears give birth,
And the mountains dance.
Spring: Now, drunk on joy, let all things dance!
Oh, drunk on joy, let all things dance!
The World: Till tizzygiddygiddydizzyfizzytizzytipsy we be,
All around
We fall down!
Spring: And drunk on joy, now all things dance,
(So drunk on joy, how all things dance!)
The World: Till everybody
Finds this treasure:
Love, like life,
Is pain and pleasure.
Spring: Drunk on joy, you’re drunk on joy!
The World: No, you’re drunk
As a love-lorn boy!
Spring: For Spring is love!
The World: And love is spring!
Spring: Dance if you know this!
The World: (If you don’t know, sing!)
Spring: Drunk on joy, let’s all dance!
The World: Oh drunk on joy, let’s all dance!
Spring: So drunk on joy –
The World: Oh, drunk on joy –
Still drunk on joy . . . !
(Pause.)
Spring: Oh! Hear my call, oh world, my home!
The World: We hear your call! The traveler’s home!
All: O Spring, rejoice us now!
_____
Christopher Bernard is author of two book-length collections of poetry, The Rose Shipwreck and Chien Lunatique, and is co-editor and poetry editor for the webzine Caveat Lector. His third novel, Spectres (originally serialized in Synchronized Chaos as “AMOR i KAOS”), will appear later this year, from Regent Press.
Christopher Bernard’s last chapter of Amor I Kaos
Christopher Bernard’s Novel “AMOR i KAOS”: Final Installment
A pool of darkness. To himself and his neighbors. A weeping willow above it, dragging its whip-like branches across the surface in the afternoon breeze. The little stone springhouse at the edge of the woods where they kept the cream sodas, the Oranginas, the cokes. The light gurgling of the spring over the rocks as it entered the pool. The olive green scum off toward the far side, where the tall reeds started in a dark green screen. The sound of a dragonfly darting past his ear, then the sight of it hovering over the pool, its whirring transparent wings, its delicately pulsing body as thin as a small, black finger; then it darts off.
The sense that a world of busyness is happening all around him, a hidden universe of intense, purposeful activity, from the grasses to the leaves, from the worms boring through the mud to the beetles and flies, to the lizards and snakes, to the squirrels, to the birds flashing in and out of the trees, to the little shifts of air, zephyrs, breezes, to the wind and the sky, to the clouds, the clouds, the clouds, those little worlds of chaos, to the sun, the unseen moon, the silent mob of stars behind the blank, opaque blue—in the apparent stillness, an endless busyness, motion endlessly rich, constant birth, constant renewal, an infinity of novel and strange and oddly beautiful forms, a panorama, a spectacle of beings he was, in effect, and maybe even in fact, blessed with witnessing and living among. A formation of fighters thunders across the sky.
One day an ant decides that all of creation has been made for it and it alone—from its creation myth in a clump of eggs in the corner of a damp tree stump, its growth, scrambling over its myriads of cousins, into maturity, its dramatic adventures scurrying over the forest floor, its toilsome existence dragging pieces of dead leaves and beetle husks into the darkness of its anthill, and its heroic destiny as an ant-angel squeaking hosannas to an ant-god in a heaven full of fellow insects—and it toils at growing its anthill and ant society to ever greater heights and to ever greater glory, to prove its grand dreams were justified, that nothing is too good for it or for its fellow ants, and that the rest of nature exists to support it, and will be, if need be, sacrificed to its interests, its survival, pleasures, whims. That ant, in its little soul and clever brain, has even invented a weapon that, implausibly enough, could destroy not only its own anthill, and all other anthills in the world, in one fell swoop, but the entire forest, the county, state, nation—life on earth itself. Such a clever ant! Such a mighty ant! And it might do that one day, just to show it can. It’s just that smart, and on a bad day, just that mad.
—That ant, he said, is me.
She said nothing for a very long time.
xxxxx
Christopher Bernard’s Amor I Kaos: Eighth Novel Installment
Christopher Bernard’s novel “AMOR i KAOS”: Eighth Installment. (Search for earlier chapters by searching his name or the novel title on our site!)
But it doesn’t anymore. (Doesn’t what? she asked.) Happen as it used to. I remember you smiling at me. I remember me smiling at you. (I can’t say I remember either of those things. Or if they happened, they were pure reflexes. They were social smiles, meant to ward off hostility, to express harmlessness, peaceful intentions. They had no expressive meaning or intention whatsoever.) That isn’t what I remember. (You can’t trust memory. It lies.) Not always and not everywhere. (Where emotions are involved, almost always.) Then how am I to be so sure that what you say you remember is accurate either? If I have to choose between your memory and mine, thanks, but I think I’ll choose mine. First of all, because it’s more beautiful. (To you.) True: more beautiful to me. (And I choose mine because it seems more likely to be true.) No, because it’s meaner, and you think the meaner the thought, the more honest, the truer. Sometimes I’m afraid of you, you have a cruel streak, or maybe it’s just anger, and you’re looking for a reason, any reason, to fight. (You’re wrong. I don’t want to fight you, you want to fight me, everything you say is meant to provoke me. Everything you say is an attack. All you want to do is win.) No, no, no, I don’t accept your terms for this debate. (You’re trying to impose your meaning on me. I won’t have it!) I’m not trying to impose anything on you, I’m just trying to express what I feel and understand. (You won’t let this go, you’re being insistent and disrespectful.) No, I’m just not letting you win, I’m standing up to you and not letting you bully me. (You don’t hear what I’m saying! Stop this!) Stop what? Stop speaking? I can’t, I won’t. Don’t order me. (Don’t order me! You’re being selfish and childish in trying to impose your ideas and feelings on me.) I am not, that’s not what this is about. Why are we fighting? I don’t understand this, I don’t understand you. Why are you behaving like this? (What about the word stop do you not understand? You’re being violent in your insistence. I want no more communication from you. I will not listen. If you communicate with me again I will seek recourse to stronger action.)