... one moment of truth

 

'But when the world breathes its ardent love for you, it's madness to resist.'

  Rhonda Douglas, from 'Eight moments of truth for Cassandra'

 

in: Douglas (2008), Some days I think I know things: the Cassandra poems.

Winnipeg/Manitoba: Signature Editions, p.65

'Portrait Of A Figure Near Water

 

'Rebuked, she turned and ran
uphill to the barn. Anger, the inner
arsonist, held a match to her brain.
She observed her life: against her will
it survived the unwavering flame.


The barn was empty of animals.
Only a swallow tilted
near the beams, and bats
hung from the rafters
the roof sagged between.


Her breath became steady
where, years past, the farmer cooled
the big tin amphoræ of milk.
The stone trough was still
filled with water: she watched it
and received its calm.


So it is when we retreat in anger:
we think we burn alone
and there is no balm.
Then water enters, though it makes
no sound.'

Jane Kenyon

the art of losing

One Art

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

Realities

 

Are All the Break-Ups in Your Poems Real?

If by real you mean as real as a shark tooth stuck
in your heel, the wetness of a finished lollipop stick,
the surprise of a thumbtack in your purse—
then Yes, every last page is true, every nuance,
bit, and bite. Wait. I have made them up—all of them—
and when I say I am married, it means I married
all of them, a whole neighborhood of past loves.
Can you imagine the number of bouquets, how many
slices of cake? Even now, my husbands plan a great meal
for us—one chops up some parsley, one stirs a bubbling pot
on the stove. One changes the baby, and one sleeps
in a fat chair. One flips through the newspaper, another
whistles while he shaves in the shower, and every single
one of them wonders what time I am coming home.

Aimee Nezhukumatathil

 Lucky Fish, 2011, Tupelo Press

Cassandra went traveling

... and this is what she saw.

'hope is not for the wise'

Hope is not for the wise, fear is for fools;
Change and the world, we think, are racing to a fall,
Open-eyed and helpless, in every newscast that is the news:
The time's events would seem mere chaos but all
Drift the one deadly direction. But this is only
The August thunder of the age, not the November.
Wise men hope nothing, the wise are naturally lonely
And think November as good as April, the wise remember
That Caesar and even final Augustus had heirs,
And men lived on; rich unplanned life on earth
After the foreign wars and the civil wars, the border wars
And the barbarians: music and religion, honor and mirth
Renewed life's lost enchantments. But if life even
Had perished utterly, Oh perfect loveliness of earth and heaven.
 

Robinson Jeffers

'love is not all'

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain;
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again;
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
Pinned down by pain and moaning for release,
Or nagged by want past resolution's power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.

                                                         Edna St. Vincent Millay

'A Few Words on the Soul'

 

by Wislawa Szymborska

translated from the Polish by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

'We have a soul at times.
No one’s got it non-stop,
for keeps.

Day after day,
year after year
may pass without it.

Sometimes
it will settle for awhile
only in childhood’s fears and raptures.
Sometimes only in astonishment
that we are old.

It rarely lends a hand
in uphill tasks,
like moving furniture,
or lifting luggage,
or going miles in shoes that pinch.

It usually steps out
whenever meat needs chopping
or forms have to be filled.

For every thousand conversations
it participates in one,
if even that,
since it prefers silence.

Just when our body goes from ache to pain,
it slips off-duty.

It’s picky:
it doesn’t like seeing us in crowds,
our hustling for a dubious advantage
and creaky machinations make it sick.

Joy and sorrow
aren’t two different feelings for it.
It attends us
only when the two are joined.

We can count on it
when we’re sure of nothing
and curious about everything.

Among the material objects
it favors clocks with pendulums
and mirrors, which keep on working
even when no one is looking.

It won’t say where it comes from
or when it’s taking off again,
though it’s clearly expecting such questions.

We need it
but apparently
it needs us
for some reason too.'

Knowing

                            But knowing is far weaker than necessity.

                                       Aeschylus

the laughter of women

The laughter of women sets fire
to the Halls of Injustice
and the false evidence burns
to a beautiful white lightness

It rattles the Chambers of Congress
and forces the windows wide open
so the fatuous speeches can fly out

The laughter of women wipes the mist
from the spectacles of the old;
it infects them with a happy flu
and they laugh as if they were young again

Prisoners held in underground cells
imagine that they see daylight
when they remember the laughter of women

It runs across water that divides,
and reconciles two unfriendly shores
like flares that signal the news to each other

What a language it is, the laughter of women,
high-flying and subversive.
Long before law and scripture
we heard the laughter, we understood freedom.

Lisel Mueller

'with music, and with banners'

 

'Speak not of guilt, speak not of responsibility. When the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners; when the senses shiver and shudder, it is only a fool and an irreverent person that will keep his distance, who will not embrace the good cause, marching towards the conquest of pleasures and passions.
      All of morality’s laws – poorly understood and applied – are nil and cannot stand even for a moment, when the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners.
      Do not permit any shadowy virtue to hold you back. Do not believe that any obligation binds you. Your duty is to give in, to always give in to Desires, these most perfect creatures of the perfect gods. Your duty is to enlist as a faithful footman, with simplicity of heart, when the Regiment of the Senses parades by, with music, and with banners.
      Do not confine yourself at home, misleading yourself with theories of justice, with the preconceptions of reward, held by an imperfect society. Do not say, Such is my toil’s worth and such is my due to savor. Just as life is an inheritance, and you did nothing to earn it as a recompense, so should Sensual Pleasure be. Do not shut yourself at home; but keep the windows open, open wide, so as to hear the first sound of the passing of the soldiers, when the Regiment of the Senses arrives, with music, and with banners.
      Do not be deceived by the blasphemers who tell you that the service is dangerous and laborious. The service of sensual pleasure is a constant joy. It does exhaust you, but it exhausts you with inebriations sublime. And finally, when you collapse in the street, even then your fortune is enviable. When your funeral will pass by, the Forms to which your desires gave shape will shower lilacs and white roses upon your coffin, young Olympian Gods will bear you on their shoulders, and you will be buried in the Cemetery of the Ideal, where the mausoleums of poetry gleam conspicuously white.'

C.P. Cavafy, The Regiment of the Senses

translated from the Greek by Manuel Savidis

The Cavafy Archive

Power

Circe's Power

'I never turned anyone into a pig.
Some people are pigs; I make them
Look like pigs.

I'm sick of your world
That lets the outside disguise the inside. Your men weren't bad men;
Undisciplined life
Did that to them. As pigs,

Under the care of
Me and my ladies, they
Sweetened right up.

Then I reversed the spell, showing you my goodness
As well as my power. I saw

We could be happy here,
As men and women are
When their needs are simple. In the same breath,

I foresaw your departure,
Your men with my help braving
The crying and pounding sea. You think

A few tears upset me? My friend,
Every sorceress is
A pragmatist at heart; nobody sees essence who can't
Face limitation. If I wanted only to hold you

I could hold you prisoner.'

 

Louise Gluck

'our efforts are the efforts of the Trojans'

 

Trojans

i
Our efforts are the efforts of the Trojans.
We prosper in some measure; we believe
in our own power a little; and we begin
to move intrepidly and with fair hopes.

But always something rises and repels us.
Achilles at the trench in front of us
rises, and with far-sounding cry dismays us.

ii
Our efforts are the efforts of the Trojans.
We think that with decision and with boldness
we may repress the enmity of fortune,
and we abide the conflict in the open.

But when the crisis exigent is come,
our boldness and decision fall away;
the soul is disconcerted, paralysed;
and round about the walls we run apace,
endeavouring in flight to find escape.

And our defeat is certain. Even now,
above us, on the walls, the wail begins.
Memories wail, and affections of our day.
Grievously Priam and Hecuba bewail us. 

C.P. Cavafy

Poems by C. P. Cavafy. Translated, from the Greek, by J. C. Cavafy. Ikaros, 2003

The Cavafy Archive

Fire

'A Small Story about the Sky'

'The fire was so fierce,
So red, so gray, so yellow
That, along with the land,
It burned part of the sky
Which stayed black in that corner
For years,
As if it were night there
Even in the daytime,
A piece of the sky burnt
And which then
Could not be counted on
Even by the birds.

It was a regular fire—
Terrible—we forget this
About fire—terrible
And full of pride. 
It intended to be
Big, no regular fire. 
Like so many of us,
It intended to be more
And this time was.
It was not better or worse
Than any other fire
Growing up. 
But this time, it was a fire
At just the right time
And in just the right place—
If you think like a fire—
A place it could do something big.

Its flames reached out
With ten thousand pincers,
As if the fire
Were made of beetles and scorpions
Clawing themselves to get up,
Pinching the air itself
And climbing,
So many sharp animals
On each others' backs
Then into the air itself,
Ten thousand snaps and pinches
At least,
So that if the sky
Was made of something,
It could not get away this time.

Finally the fire
Caught the sky,
Which acted like a slow rabbit
Which had made a miscalculation.
It didn’t believe this could happen
And so it ran left,
Right into the thin toothpicks of flames,
Too fast to pull back,
The sky with all its arms,
Hands, fingers, fingernails,
All of it
Disappeared. 
Goodbye.

The sky stayed black
For several years after.
I wanted to tell you
This small story
About the sky.
It’s a good one
And explains why the sky
Comes so slowly in the morning,
Still unsure of what’s here. 
But the story is not mine.
It was written by fire,
That same small fire
That wanted to come home
With something of its own
To tell,
And it did,
A small piece of blue in its mouth.'

Alberto Rios
Poetry magazine, February 2011

Sadness

Oda a la tristeza

Tristeza, escarabajo
de siete patas rotas,
huevo de telaraña,
rata descalabrada,
esqueleto de perra:
Aquí no entras.
No pasas.
Ándate.
Vuelve
al Sur con tu paraguas,
vuelve
al Norte con tus dientes de culebra.
Aquí vive un poeta.
La tristeza no puede
entrar por estas puertas.
Por las ventanas
entra el aire del mundo,
las rojas rosas nuevas,
las banderas bordadas
del pueblo y sus victorias.
No puedes.
Aquí no entras.
Sacude
tus alas de murciélago,
yo pisaré las plumas
que caen de tu manto,
yo barreré los trozos
de tu cadáver hacia
las cuatro puntas del viento,
yo te torceré el cuello,
te coseré los ojos,
cortaré tu mortaja
y enterraré tus huesos roedores
bajo la primavera de un manzano.

Pablo Neruda

Ode to Sadness

Sadness, scarab
with seven crippled feet,
spiderweb egg,
scramble-brained rat,
bitch's skeleton:
No entry here.
Don't come in.
Go away.
Go back
south with your umbrella,
go back
north with your serpent's teeth.
A poet lives here.
No sadness may
cross this threshold.
Through these windows
comes the breath of the world,
fresh red roses,
flags embroidered with
the victories of the people.
No.
No entry.
Flap
your bat's wings,
I will trample the feathers
that fall from your mantle,
I will sweep the bits and pieces
of your carcass to
the four corners of the wind,
I will wring your neck,
I will stitch your eyelids shut,
I will sew your shroud,
sadness, and bury your rodent bones
beneath the springtime of an apple tree.
 

Pablo Neruda

fighting magic with magic

 

 'Fairy tales are full of impossible tasks:
Gather the chin hairs of a man-eating goat,
Or cross a sulphuric lake in a leaky boat,
Select the prince from a row of identical masks,
Tiptoe up to a dragon where it basks
And snatch its bone; count dust specks, mote by mote,
Or learn the phone directory by rote.
Always it’s impossible what someone asks—

You have to fight magic with magic. You have to believe
That you have something impossible up your sleeve,
The language of snakes, perhaps, an invisible cloak,
An army of ants at your beck, or a lethal joke,
The will to do whatever must be done:
Marry a monster. Hand over your firstborn son.'

A.E. Stallings: Fairy-tale Logic

Conversation

 

The tumult in the heart
keeps asking questions.
And then it stops and undertakes to answer
in the same tone of voice.
No one could tell the difference.

Uninnocent, these conversations start,
and then engage the senses,
only half-meaning to.
And then there is no choice,
and then there is no sense;

until a name
and all its connotation are the same.
 

Elizabeth Bishop

'What You Said about the Moon'

 

'All the little lies follow the big lie

while the big lie is pared away.

 

Fading face, old friend

of my left hand waning,

of my right hand waxing:

gibbous mirror womb for womb.

 

Throbbing pulse and dangling watch,

globing, shrinking, hinged

where night

unhinges night.

 

Cause of eloquence

ending in derangement.

 

There could be such a thing as too much feeling.

 

I had meant to harvest, not to hunt.

 

Turn your money over,

blow ashes,

whisper “I saw you before you saw me.”'

 

 

Susan Stewart (2003), Columbarium. London & Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, p.58

Fate

 

'Escaped Housewife Prefers the Term Cosmetologist

Quasi-scientific? Maybe.
But think of beautician,
a word that assumes loveliness
is brought off by technology.

She prefers cosmetologist—
how it seems to have something
to do with the stars. She believes
she can see the future
when she stares face-down
at the globe of a stranger's scalp
and adjusts the tilt of his head.

At the Academy, she is learning
about the tendencies of things
to remain where they fall.
She knows some tricks—
spritz and gel, the so-called
permanent wave. She wonders
where they come from,
this galaxy of dowdy customers.

Some days her precision cuts
hang like torn drapes
on a dirty window.
I see you've tried
an asymmetrical look,
her instructor might say,
snipping corrections.
At the Academy, asymmetrical
is spelled with a D.

She came here to verify
what she always suspected:
that straight hair must be curled,
curly hair straightened,
long hair cut, short hair extended.
That what comes to us by fate
is wrong.'

Karen Craigo

(Poetry Magazine, March 2002)

Boundaries

'Eros is an issue of boundaries. He exists because certain boundaries do. In the interval between reach and grasp, between glance and counterglance, between ‘I love you’ and ‘I love you too,’ the absent presence of desire comes alive. But the boundaries of time and glance and I love you are only aftershocks of the main, inevitable boundary that creates Eros: the boundary of flesh and self between you and me. And it is only, suddenly, at the moment when I would dissolve that boundary, I realize I never can.' 

Anne Carson, Eros the Bittersweet

today

 

Look to this day:
For it is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course
Lie all the verities and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth,
The glory of action,
The splendour of achievement
Are but experiences of time.

For yesterday is but a dream
And tomorrow is only a vision;
And today well-lived, makes
Yesterday a dream of happiness
And every tomorrow a vision of hope.
Look well therefore to this day;
Such is the salutation to the ever-new dawn!
 

Kalidasa

'more and more'

 

 

'More and more frequently the edges
of me dissolve and I become
a wish to assimilate the world, including
you, if possible through the skin
like a cool plant's tricks with oxygen
and live by a harmless green burning.

I would not consume
you or ever
finish, you would still be there
surrounding me, complete
as the air.

Unfortunately I don't have leaves.
Instead I have eyes
and teeth and other non-green
things which rule out osmosis.

So be careful, I mean it,
I give you fair warning:

This kind of hunger draws
everything into its own
space; nor can we
talk it all over, have a calm
rational discussion.

There is no reason for this, only
a starved dog's logic about bones.'

 

Margaret Atwood

Mnemosyne

Mnemosyne

Reif sind, in Feuer getaucht, gekochet

Die Frücht und auf der Erde geprüfet und ein Gesetz ist,

Daß alles hineingeht, Schlangen gleich,

Prophetisch, träumend auf

Den Hügeln des Himmels. Und vieles

Wie auf den Schultern eine

Last von Scheitern ist

Zu behalten. Aber bös sind

Die Pfade. Nämlich unrecht

Wie Rosse, gehn die gefangenen

Element und alten

Gesetze der Erd. Und immer

Ins Ungebundene gehet eine Sehnsucht. Vieles aber ist

Zu behalten. Und not die Treue.

Vorwärts aber und rückwärts wollen wir

Nicht sehn. Uns wiegen lassen, wie

Auf schwankem Kahne der See.

Wie aber Liebes? Sonnenschein

Am Boden sehen wir und trockenen Staub

Und heimatlich die Schatten der Wälder und es blühet

An Dächern der Rauch, bei alter Krone

Der Türme, friedsam; gut sind nämlich,

Hat gegenredend die Seele

Ein Himmlisches verwundet, die Tageszeichen.

Denn Schnee, wie Maienblumen

Das Edelmütige, wo

Es seie, bedeutend, glänzend auf

Der grünen Wiese

Der Alpen, hälftig, da, vom Kreuze redend, das

Gesetzt ist unterwegs einmal

Gestorbenen, auf hoher Straß

Ein Wandersmann geht zornig,

Fern ahnend mit

Dem andern, aber was ist dies?

Am Feigenbaum ist mein

Achilles mir gestorben,

Und Ajax liegt

An den Grotten der See,

An Bächen, benachbart dem Skamandros.

An Schläfen Sausen einst, nach

Der unbewegten Salamis steter

Gewohnheit, in der Fremd, ist groß

Ajax gestorben,

Patroklos aber in des Königes Harnisch. Und es starben

Noch andere viel. Am Kithäron aber lag

Elevtherä, der Mnemosyne Stadt. Der auch, als

Ablegte den Mantel Gott, das Abendliche nachher löste

Die Locken. Himmlische nämlich sind

Unwillig, wenn einer nicht die Seele schonend sich

Zusammengenommen, aber er muß doch; dem

Gleich fehlet die Trauer.

 

Friedrich Hölderlin (1803)

The fruits are ripe, dipped in fire,

Cooked and sampled on earth. And there's a law,

That things crawl off in the manner of snakes,

Prophetically, dreaming on the hills of heaven.

And there is much that needs to be retained,

Like a load of wood on the shoulders.

But the pathways are dangerous.

The captured elements and ancient laws of earth

Run astray like horses. There is a constant yearning

For all that is unconfined. But much needs

To be retained. And loyalty is required.

Yet we mustn't look forwards or backwards.

We should let ourselves be cradled

As if on a boat rocking on a lake.

But what about things that we love?

We see sun shining on the ground, and the dry dust,

And at home the forests deep with shadows,

And smoke flowering from the rooftops,

Peacefully, near the ancient crowning towers.

These signs of daily life are good,

Even when by contrast something divine

Has injured the soul.

For snow sparkles on an alpine meadow,

Half-covered with green, signifying generosity

Of spirit in all situations, like flowers in May —

A wanderer walks up above on a high trail

And speaks irritably to a friend about a cross

He sees in the distance, set for someone

Who died on the path... what does it mean?

My Achilles

Died near a fig tree,

And Ajax lies in the caves of the sea

Near the streams of Skamandros —

Great Ajax died abroad

Following Salamis' inflexible customs,

A rushing sound at his temples —

But Patroclus died in the King's armor.

Many others died as well.

But Eleutherai, the city

Of Mnemosyne, once stood upon

Mount Kithaeron. Evening

Loosened her hair, after the god

Had removed his coat.

For the gods are displeased

If a person doesn't compose

And spare himself. 

But one has to do it, 

And grief is soon gone.        

risk

And then the day came,

when the risk
to remain tight
in a bud
was more painful
than the risk
it took
to blossom.

Anaïs Nin

torch song

 

Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing

The world is full of women
who'd tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they'd say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I've a choice
of how, and I'll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it's all in the timing.
I sell men back their worst suspicions:
that everything's for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can't. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape's been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there's only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it's the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretense
that I can't hear them.
And I can't, because I'm after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don't let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I'll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That's what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They'd like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look - my feet don't hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I'm rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I'm not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you'll burn.

Margaret Atwood

Penelope

'In the pathway of the sun,
In the footsteps of the breeze,
Where the world and sky are one,
He shall ride the silver seas,
He shall cut the glittering wave.
I shall sit at home, and rock;
Rise, to heed a neighbor's knock;
Brew my tea, and snip my thread;
Bleach the linen for my bed.
They will call him brave.'

Dorothy Parker

a warning

 

'Imagining Cassandra'

 

'She simply arrives

one day unannounced

and makes herself at home, laughs

at my life, asks impertinent questions:

              (do you always lie to yourself like this?)

A young man at the bar tells me

violence is a feminist construct. Next

to him Cassandra laughs, looks at him

with longing: he is so young.

Attempts to lock her out meet her quiet

resistance, and she tells me to go

ahead and try, she has lived through

worse. Crosses her legs, waits to see

what happens. She is a poor guest, leaves

wet towels on the floor, drinks

all the soy milk - she is intolerant.

I'm telling you this so you can be prepared.

When she knocks on your door at 3 a.m.,

asks in her clear small voice if you can talk,

I'm just saying you might

want to think about it

before you open the door.'

source:

Rhonda Douglas (2008), Some days I think I know things: the Cassandra poems.

Winnipeg/Manitoba: Signature Editions, p.9

mud

Go with muddy feet

When you hear dirty story wash your ears.

When you see ugly stuff wash your eyes.

When you get bad thoughts wash your mind.

and Keep your feet muddy.

Nanao Sakaki(1987)

cited in: Coleman Barks et al, 2002. Rumi, the book of love: poems of ecstacy and longing. HarperCollins e-books, p. 2.

Words

'But isn't the word the very thing that has taken control over our inner life? The fact that I lack words here: doesn't this mean that I am loosing myself? A curious notion: If a Cassandra were to appear now - and from the looks of things she must exist among the women here - I would not recognize her, because I would not understand her speech.'

Wolf, Christa, 1984. Conditions of a narrative. In: Wolf, Christa, 1984. Cassandra: a novel and four essays. Translated from German by Jan van Heurck. London: Virago., p.161

Myth

 

‘With myth everything becomes possible.’  

 Claude Levi-Strauss (1963)