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Friday, May 13, 2011

THE NAMES OF THE WINDS




THE NAMES OF THE WINDS


This is a very long but beautiful excerpt from Guy Murchie’s SONG OF THE SKY - An exploration of the ocean of air published in 1954 by h

Houghton Mifflin Company in the United States and by The Riverside Press, Cambridge. It is illustrated by the author.

Murchie is one of the most amazing writers of expository prose I have ever read. See his Music of the Spheres and his The Seven Mysteries of Life which is one of the most amazing books I’ve ever read.


pages 130-137.


“Have you heard the wind names of the world, which are among the least known and most beautiful of words? They are truly the heritage of all men for they reflect the tongues of history from ancient Cathy to the slang of the United States Army. Consider the dry khamsin of Egypt, reputed to blow sand unceasingly for fifty days; the westerly datoo of the Straits of Gibraltar; the misty waimea of Hawaii; the cool pontias from the Rhone gorges; the chinook of the dry American plains; the sudden violent williwaw of Alaska and Magellan’s Strait; the biting black buran of Russia; the great typhoon of the China Sea; the whispering matsukaze which shifts through Japanese pine groves; the mild shamal that descends the twin valleys of the Tigris and Euphrates; the warm brickfelder of southern Australia; the playful vento coado which whistles through crannies in the hillside hovels of Portugal;the snorting sonora which crosses Arizona from Mexico to California each summer’ the dainty feh of Shanghai; the whirling tsumuji of Japan; the vindictive rok of Iceland; the refreshing imbat off the blue Mediterranean; the ruthless helm wind of Cumberland which uproots turnips in the field.

Can you feel the rhythm of the wind in human memory? It is a music in the sky and in men’s souls. I cannot refrain from listing them, even at risk of being encyclopedic. It has taken years to snare some of them, and the evidence is that no real wind roster has ever before been assembled.

Faring further into thr sky then, it becomes obvious that the winds of the world are of distant lands. There are the hot, dry winds like the simoom or “burning wind” which are said to wreak great hardship on all living creatures and the moving parts of all machines. Wagon wheels have to be tarred in a desert wind to prevent a fatal brittleness. A wooden flute must be dipped in cool water or oil to prevent it from splitting end to end. And sometimes men are driven to desperation by the parching of their skins, and their throats and noses. Herodotus tells us of the ancient people of Psylli (Tripoli) who became so hysterical when their wells dried up that they actually declared war on the simoom and marched into the Sahara with clashing cymbals and beating drums until they disappeared into a red cloud of whirling sand.

Herewith the desert winds:


Simoom - of Arabia, Syria, and probably Libya

Samiel - Turkish versions of Simoom off Arabian desert

Brickfelder - of Australia

Zonda - of Argentine pampas

Ghibli - dry, southerly wind of the eastern Mediterranean

Leste - warm easterly wind of January in the Medeiras

Black roller - duststorm of the western United States

Naalehu - of Hawaii, blowing from the arid interior areas.

Harmattan - parching wind of Algeria and Morocco

Haboob - of the Sudan, the black roller of the upper Nile

Khamsin - of Egypt


The last mentioned khamsin blows most of the summer from Aden to Cairo carrying so much sand that it is the obvious modern explanation to the ‘darkness that could be felt” of the ninth plague of Egypt.

Then there are the stormy northeasterly winds of passing low pressure:


Koshava - of Yugoslavia, bearing snow from Russia

Steppewind - of Germany blowing from the steppes

Crivetz - of Rumania, like a blizzard

Buran - of Russia, usually with snow

Viuga - of southern Siberia

Myatel - of northern Russia

Purga - of Russia

Seistan - of Iran

Fung chiao hsueh - of China

Bise - dank wind of France (sometimes blowing from the North)

Euroclydon - of the Levant

Tegenwind - of Holland

Hokuto no Kaze - of Japan

Blizzard - of northern America, a howling snowstorm

Nor’easter - of New England, a variant of the blizzard

Suestada - ofthe Rio de la Plata

Southerly burster - of Australia, preceeded by an eerie lull

(these two are southern hemisphere counterparts of northern NE winds)


Of the true north winds are:


Gallego - of Spain

Tramontana - Alpine blast of the Italian east coast

Leung - of the China coast

Pei fung - of China

Erh chi chih fung - of northern China

Hawa shimali - of Arabia

Belat - of Arabian coast in winter

Etesian - of cool summer afternoons in Greece and Levant

Narai - of Japan

Canadian north wind - cold, crusty wind of northern America


The last mentioned wind helped Benedict arnold’s fleet stop the first British invasion from Canada in the American Revolution. this was at the Battle of Valcour Island on Lake Champlain, October 11, 1776, where, by taking a northerly upwind position for his ambush of the superior British fleet, Arnold gained the indispensable advantage.


The non-simoom south winds are fewer but no less fraught with character:


Siffanto - up from the hot heel of Italy

Kona - of Hawaii, sultry and petulant with many varieties

Kai - balmy south wind of China

Hawa janubi - of Arabia

Vandavales - out of Morocco and blowing over Spain


This last isthe gentle breeze which, at the Battle of Trafalger, influenced Nelson to risk attack in two columns instead of the traditional line.

Of plain east and west winds like the helm, the haur, and the datoo, the most famous in history is the east wind that blew at the Siege of Orleans. As joan of Arc on the west bank of the Loire prayed to Saint Catherine to help her men cross on their gun rafts to attack the English fort, it miraculously changed into a west wind. Cried Dunois, in the words of Shaw: “West wind, west wind, west wind. Strumpet: steadfast when you should be wanton, wanton when you should be steadfast...west wind, wanton wind, wilful wind, womanish wind, false wind from over the water, will you never blow again?”

Trade winds cover vast areas, and the best known ones are the northeast trades that extend around most of the earth from the wind equator to the north horse latitudes, while corresponding southeast winds blow trade over the equivalent Capricorn belt. Some special trade winds are:


Eliseos - of Spain

Moncao - of Portugal

Boekifu - of Japan

Maaoi fung - of China

Tung shang fung - of China

Shih ling fung - of China


Of more local type are the treacherous down-blowing or fall winds, warm and cold, of the ice slopes of mountains - particularly the gusty foehn winds of the high Alps, the Rockies, Andes, and the deep fiords of Norway and Greenland which blow savagely down from the lee heights, becoming drier as they warm under the pressure of lower altitude. This family of down-blowing winds, which sometimes move with boiling turbulence and form jets in local valleys, has undoubtedly brought disaster to more unwary fliers crossing high mountain ranges than any other type of wind there is. The foehn has been estimated to throw pressure altimeters into error by as much as 1000 feet on the optimistic side near high peaks, and even though it is a fall wind the effect of tis wave motion has been observed to reach twenty five times the height of the mountains. Fall winds include:


Maloja - plummeting foehn wind in lofty Maloja Pass in Switzerland

Yamo oroshi - foehn of the steep valleys of Japan

Chinook - widespread foehn wind in the lee of the Rockies that in winter warms the sheepherders of Montana

Zonda - foehn of the Andes in Argentina

Papagayos - of Costa Rica

Santa Ana - of southern California

Klod - Balinese wind that blows “downward to the sea”

Reshabar - lusty and black, out of the high Caucasus

Gregale - a Maltese wind down from the Balkan highlands


and these northerly winds which bring cold air masses down from continental plateaus to balmy coasts:


Mistral - down from the Cevennes to the French Mediterranean shore

Bora - the dry, blustery, katabatic wind that cools the Dalmatian coast and freshens Naples before the dawn

Monsoon - off the Tibetan plateau to India in Winter

Tehuantepecer - the mistal of Mexico, down from the central plateau


Sometimes the lesser lee downdrafts are poetically referred to as air falls, jsut as their counterparts to windward are known as air fountains.

Akin to these gravity winds are the squally kind:


Galerna - of the Bay of Biscay

Pampero - of Argentina

Norther - of Texas

Chocolatero - of the Gulf of Mexico

Blaast - of Scotland

Bull’s Eye Squall - off the Cape of Good Hope

Kawaihae - of Hawaii

Sumatra - westerly squall of the Indies

Vinds-gnyr - ancient blustery wind of Iceland

Reffoli - 100 m.p.h. gusts associated with the bora of the Adriatic

Naf Hat - blast of Arabia

Wisper - of the Rhine, attaining great strength in narrow valleys

Briza Carabinera - of Spain

Om - of Canton

Line Squall - grumbling frontal wind of the United States

Tapayagua - of western Central America

Kwat - of Amoy

Chubasco - thunderous wind of Pacific Mexico

Williwaw - of Alaska and Magellan’s Strait which sometimes puffs for only a few seconds at a time


The sea breeze has several poetic names, particularly on the Mediterranean coasts:


Imbat - refreshing North African shores

Datoo - blowing from the west across Gibraltar

Vento de baixo - of Portugal

Solano - of Spain

Levanter - blowing over the Balearic Isles from the east

Ponente - westerly Italian breeze

Libeccio - southwesterly wind also of Italy and, like the Ponete, mentioned by Milton in Paradise Lost


In other places it is known by other names:


Monsoon - of summer in India

Kadja - of Bali, blowing, “upwards to the mountains”

The Doctor - of English-speaking shores

Kaus - of the Persian Gulf

Kapalilua - of Hawaii


And there are the very gentle breezes:


Feh - of shanghai

Kohilo - of Hawaii

Flakt - of Sweden

Creithleag - of Ireland

Waff - of Scotland

Aura - breath of dawn in ancient days

Soyo kaze - of Japan

Vyeterok - of Russia

Sveszhest - of Russia

Ch’ing fung - of China

Sz - first faint breeze of the chinese autumn

Cat’s paw - which barely ripples mill ponds in America

Thalwind - of german valleys

Flauwewind - of Holland

Nasim - of Arabia

Vind-blaer - of Icelandic sagas

Chwa - of Wales

I tein tien fung - a sigh in the sky of China


In contrast the mightiest of winds, the great West Indian hurricane (from the Taino word “huracan” or “evil spirit”) dominates the Caribbean as the typhoon (from “ty fung” “great wind”) the China Seas. But this elephant among the winds has many names for his many haunts, among them:


Mauritius hurricane, or cyclone - of the Indian Ocean

Baguio - of the Philippines

Reppu - of Japan

Willy-Willy - of the Timor Sea descending into north Australia

Asifa-t - of Arabia


Of his lesser cousins, the high gales, there remain:


Orkan - of norway

Landlash - of Scotland

Doinionn - “wild weather” of Ireland

Colla - of the Philippines

Frisk vind - of Sweden

Ventania - of Portugal

Elephanta - of the Malabar coast

Bofu - of Japan

Yuh - of Shanghai

Kohala - of Hawaii


Most of the true tropical hurricanes are born mysteriously and unattended in the giddy heat of the doldrums. Little is definitely yet proven about the dynamics of their origin. But their initial power is widely conjectured to come from a rising vortex of heat over water that “must be at least 82 degrees F.” and surrounded by a certain amount of atmospheric instability.


Thursday, May 12, 2011

Guy Murchie, Two poems and some photos I took




Right now I'm working on preparing a long excerpt form Guy Murchie's book SONG OF THE SKY. This is a very long but beautiful excerpt from Guy Murchie’s SONG OF THE SKY - An exploration of the ocean of air published in 1954 by houghton Mifflin Company in the United States and by The Riverside Press, Cambridge. It is illustrated by the author.

Murchie is one of the most amazing writers of expository prose I have ever read. I hope to have it done by the weekend. Meanwhile here are a couple of poems first published in Medusa's Kitchen earlier this year.



THE SPARKLING DEVICE

That spills over the edge
Of the world as we imagine
Water or song made carnate;
Rippling with flesh and somehow
Telling tales the while. It is all
Discovery and the opening of the field.

Once again, decades later and still
Chanting Duncan’s admonition,
“There is no greater wrong than
To force the song,” a flock of
Yellow birds through dappled forest
Light, twitting and a flash of wings.

“Oh we have seen him there,” we swear.
“We have and leave off from our task.”
I stand and stare even further
Into the forest knowing that we do not
Know what lies there and knowing that
We must go anyway and find that
Water we imagined towering like a
Pillar and astounding the very stars
With its poses and quick stances
Saying our name and asking us to watch it churn.




____________________

THE EARTH FORGETTING


We watched the earth forgetting.
There were animals no longer seen,
Gems so brilliant they could create
Silence in the mouths of great kings,
The humming across Summer of insect
Joy, drifting their song above flowers
No longer seen in the draperies
Gathered by the seasons. Whose
Smile was that? and it is gone
Down the street, not part of
Memory at all, a flash, then nothing.

The music of a piano and a concertina
Wrapped in late evening and dressed in
Sharps and flats has gone dancing.
It will not come back. Perhaps
It will be mined from a lost manuscript
Far from now and be seen at eleven o’clock,
But for now, the earth has forgotten.

It is busy counting waves against a thousand
Shores, finding them unspeakably beautiful.
It watches the moonlight on wheat fields
Ready for harvest beneath a full moon
Wondering what color they are, how it
Might be called, if at all. There is
Always more. It forgets the leaves of
A thousand trees and waits for us to
Notice they no longer have names.

Our families stretch their blood lines,
Their nets of living and dead upon the
Days, one upon one and suddenly one
Is forgotten, then two, then an uncle
Who was last remembered by a niece
Many years ago because he offered her a
Lovely glass he had found in a small
Store in the midwest. “I believe that store
Is no longer there. Perhaps you will
Like this glass. Look, it catches the sun
As if it being careful of the light.”

For now we will sit on the steps just
Outside the house and allow the moments
To come down around us without purpose
So we might better understand the earth,
Her strange habits, her long, long thoughts.

_________









Monday, May 2, 2011

I Wonder Why There Are People






LITANY

There is a litany of the names of the saints,
Where we are unable to recall
The names of the saints.
Time after time we
Guess at them. None of them
Seem to work
Again and again we say
Names. They are always wrong.
They are, instead, the names of friends,
Of relatives, some long departed, others
Half-remembered. Their names roll
Off the tongue, easy as the phrase “pray for us.”

Like coming downstairs in the morning and
Asking if the coffee is ready yet. A simple request only.
The saints gather in the corners of the house.
Their voices full of praise, the names of all
The angels upon their lips, as if angels had memory.

Over and over again, we say these
Names.
The days pass.
We grow older.
We change our appearance
Time and time again.
Finally, no one recognizes us
Any longer.
We reside in photographs.
Our children say our names
A few more times.
We know what the saints know, implicitly.


_______________
I WONDER WHY THERE ARE PEOPLE

The stars are in a hurry. The sky winds
Around them and tells the moon a slick
Story about how they used to have to explain
Themselves every morning when the night
Folded itself like a handkerchief and went back
To waiting, white ships struggling at anchor
In a dream.

While we are not terribly thirsty, the water
From the well tasted refreshing, reminding us
Of a lovely room just off the kitchen in a quiet
Cottage, near the edge of a small river, cookies
Were baking in the next room. We watched
The stars. It wasn’t an easy moment.
Nothing was make-believe. It may have been
beautiful but it had teeth that could bring a horse
To the ground had it wanted to.

There was obviously too much to lose here.
Night was arranging its shiny coat again. Leaves
Looked for directions from the wind. The moment
Was not our own, nor was it that of the stars.

This will come to you in dreams. It will seem
So real. You will be able to put on your glasses
And it will still seem real, a massive room of stone
Filled with the world flickering like bats leaving a cave.
We will want to go back. We will want a good bed.
We will want to see our loved ones again.

Let us change our clothes and wash the blood
From our hands, listen to the sleepy sound
The trains make at the far side of the landscape.
Perhaps they will not see us here. Pretend you
Are sleeping. A gentle breeze stirring the leaves.
The wide sweep of the heavens. It is so strange
And wonderful to be alive. Why does no one come here?

Thursday, April 14, 2011

The New Book Has Been Published


RATTLESNAKE PRESS had a 7th birthday party last evening at The Book Collector 1008 24th Street in Sacramento and celebrated the publication of my new book of poetry A LIMITED MEANS OF EXPRESSION. The event was well attended and I did a reading that seemed to go well. The book is available through Rattlesnake Press. Go to rattlesnakepress.blogspot.com and you'll find a listing for the book. The price is $8.00 - way cheap for such a book. Please buy it and support the press and poetry etc. I'm running a photo of the image I made for the cover of the book above.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

SPILLING


This poem is for Saint Therese of Lisieux. the photograph is an actual funeral photograph of Saint Therese .

SPILLING



We were not supposed to compare

The miracles when they occurred.

One was certainly not better than another;

The roses of Juan Diego to those of Theresa

of Lisieux. We were not to crumple at the

Tiniest comment. What of tears anyway?


We should be able to rise up to the very

Top of buildings without moving our legs.

Surely there would be the burning that carries

Us higher and higher to where finally

We could finally become less and less.


So we spill over and flush the earth

With our tears and quiet sorrows.

We will open the serape of Juan Diego

To see the face of the Virgin, we will find

Joy in the smallest things as we watch our

Hearts empty and fill with love like the locks

On a canal, lifting us up or lowering us


To the clear way around all obstacles,

The way singing does or looking into the eyes

of the beloved, the light reflecting, souls dancing.



Relative to the speed of the past


This is a poem about my mother's twin brother Bob Bellreng. The photograph of Bob was taken by my father Ray Wagner.

RELATIVE TO THE SPEED OF THE PAST


My mother’s twin brother was killed

At Normandy Beach while hanging

A telephone line from a pole. Never

Saw it coming. Came back in the

Late summer. The funeral was at home.


He was a handsome man, young and

Beautiful with a kind voice and a bright

Future. There were so many who did

Not come back. Every small town had

Some kind of board listing their dead sons.


Faster than that his nephews and nieces

Were growing old and laughing at how

They looked in the nineteen sixties, how

Long their hair was, how idealistic they were.


Even younger, their children are showing

Off their new babies and are being fussed

Over by relatives. There is still a war. It

Is much more informal these days. No


Boards with names on them in elementary

Schools. Now there are national monuments

With names on them. One must go to Washington

D.C. or the state capitol to see who these people were.

They still gave the same thing as their relatives,

Their lives. It isn’t legal, or barely so, to show

the boxes of the dead coming home.


The speed of the past is wildly furious.

Soon it will be lost again as it always is.

Soon we will stand in the fields of dead

And not one name will carry us away.

We will know nothing once again, implicitly.


Monday, March 21, 2011

Bach-some images etc.





The Orchestral Suites by Bach are gems, full of light and so solid. They are irresistible every time.

BACH: ORCHESTRAL SUITES


Here I am compelled to leave you.

I can see the pale violet light

Where the far mountains speak in secret

To the cumulus clouds and bunch

Them together for those afternoons

Where Bach becomes the perfect

Measure for all thought and we can

But follow, traipsing through

His math matrices with our feelings

Out where everyone can see them.


All music without words commands

The altar and demands respect.

Despite great declensions of information

It is simply not accessible.

Forever, make it part of our speech

Keep it under our fingertips

For as long as possible to recreate

At will a partita or a prelude and fugue

Or the incredible joy a conversation

Might have when we discover

Bach in a new and perfectly sensible

Landscape.