from trevor’s encyclopedia of beauty in the plain, genius in the simple, wonder in the ordinary and courage in the human

The Invention of Hugo Cabret was written and illustrated by the ingenious author/illustrator Brian Selznick. 

It won The Caldecott Medal for the most distinguished American picture book for children in 2008 and was made into a movie directed by Martin Scorcese in 2011. 

It is a story about a 12 year old boy named Hugo and the ways his life interlocks like the gears of a clock with a 12 year old eccentric, bookish girl named Isabelle and a bitter old man named George Melies. 

Hugo is an orphan who lives in the walls of a train station in 1930's Paris and tends the 27 clocks that keep the people and the trains on time. 

His father was a clock maker who died in a museum fire trying to repair an automaton - a wind-up, mechanical man that can draw and write. 

The automaton is partially damaged in the fire. 

Hugo finds it, takes it to his sparse room, and uses the drawings from one of his father's notebooks to guide him in repairing it. 

He is sure that if he can fix the automaton, it will  write a message to him from his father.

It is a wise story that wonders, "What does it mean to be human?" 

 On page 374, Hugo and Isabel ponder -

"'Did you ever notice that all machines are made for some reason?' he asked Isabelle. 'They're built to make you laugh like the mouse here, or to tell time like clocks, or to fill with you wonder like the automaton. Maybe that's why a broken machine always makes me a little sad, because it isn't able to do what it was meant to do.'

"Isabelle picked up the mouse, wound it again, and sat it down.

"'Maybe, it's the same with people?' Hugo continued. 'If you leave your purpose, it's like you're broken.'"

What is our purpose? Have we left it? Is it like we're broken? Can we be repaired? How?

In Africa, we have a proverb that says, "I am because we are; we are because I am." 

I think my purpose is found somewhere in community. 

How can I build community in this time of you against me, us against them? 

How can I build up instead of tear down?

One of my heroes is Paul Farmer. 

He is a doctor, medical anthropologist and a co-founder of Partners In Health, a community of compassionate, committed, creative people who put the tenants of liberation theology to work in the field of third word medicine. 

There is a book of speeches he has given across the U.S. called "Taking the World in for Repairs." 

He is like Hugo, trying to repair broken systems so people can fulfill their purposes in the world. 

I’m trying to be like Hugo and Isabel and Paul.

I’m trying to make those repairs, too.

The Physics of Friendship

from trevor’s encyclopedia of beauty in the plain, genius in the simple, wonder in the ordinary and courage in the human

The Physics of Friendship

They looked out the window of the bus together, side by side, cheek to cheek.

 

The heat and humidity of the Brownsville morning and the air conditioning on the bus caused the windows to fog.

 

Little Salt pulled his sleeve over his hand and used it as a kind of window wiper, moving it back and forth until he and Taki could see clearly the Gulf of Mexico along the coastal road.

 

“Wow,” whistled Little Salt softly, “Maybe 52 Blue is there.”

 

“Maybe,” whispered Taki. “I sure hope so.”

 

People began to stir and stretch and reach for their bags above and around them, but Little Salt and Taki stayed as still and quiet as the leaves on the trees that lined the street beside the bus station.

 

There are five foundational forces in the universe.

 

They hold everything together.

 

They can bring order and cause chaos.

 

Four of them can be explained by physics - the gravitational force, the electromagnetic force, the weak force and the strong force.

 

The gravitational force keeps planets in orbit around their suns and our feet firmly planted on the earth.

 

The electromagnetic force brings us electricity, information in computers, and connection - it underlies the mighty power of lightning and the gentle touch of the human hand.

 

The weak force brings us nuclear energy and makes stars shine.

 

The strong force holds quarks inside of protons and neutrons and holds protons and neutrons inside of atoms.

 

The fifth foundational force can’t be explained by physics, though.

 

It can only be explained by friendship.

 

It is love.

 

Taki and Little Salt stepped off of the Greyhound bus into the early morning sunlight.

 

“Where should we go?” asked Taki.

 

She looked at the horizon between the Gulf of Mexico and the Brownsville sky.

 

Little Salt looked at the horizon, too.

 

“I guess we should go to the water,” he whistled, “If we’re going to find 52 Blue.”*

 

They reached for each other’s hands.

 

They walked together down the road toward the gulf.

 

This created that fifth foundational force, which is the strongest force of all, for it keeps hearts in orbit around each other and gives the possibility of being able to find a lost whale in the vast reaches of the deep, blue sea.

 

 

52 Blue (A fibonacci poem)

 

 

whale

 

song

 

lonely

 

where are you?

 

wandering, singing

 

singing unheard wandering song

 

can you hear me? are you there? are you? i am alone

 

listening, longing for songs gently sung, i hear you song on water, i’m here, i’m here

 

we sing at diff’rent frequencies, migrate along diff’rent routes, wandering, wondering

 

unheard, unknown, wandering the sea, songs on water

 

singing unheard wondering songs

 

Wondering, singing

 

who are you?

 

gentle

 

song

 

whale

the little monk

from trevor’s encyclopedia of beauty in the plain, genius in the simple, wonder in the ordinary, and courage in the human

the little monk

Sometimes, the little monk hears with his eyes. Sometimes, he sees with his ears. At all times, he looks and listens with his heart.

Some stories break the little monk’s heart and scatter it all over the ground. Some stories mend his heart and put all the pieces back together again.

The little monk loves the Japanese art form ‘kintsugi.’ In English, it is translated ‘golden joinery,’ for it is an ancient art form where a broken pot is mended with laquer and dusted with powdered gold. The beauty of the broken pot is in it’s brokenness.

This is the philosophy of the little monk.

- tsb, ‘sayings and doings of the little monk,’ summer 2021

shades

The curves of her body were the gently rolling hills below the mountains where he lived as a boy. 

Her brown eyes were the deep soil of the farmland.

She was beautiful like the land, the yellow flowers he found as he roamed the countryside barefooted, the green trees that sparkled after heavy rain.

They listened to the sound of raindrops on the window of the hotel in the old part of the city. 

They made love to the rolling thunder and flashing lightning of the morning storm beside the sea.

- tsb, from the encyclopedia of beautiful things, 2021

Juniper Zine cover

 

Ode to a Migrant Worker’s Feet

Here is a poem in Fibonacci form, the structure I use to build my words into poems. I hope you find it beautiful.

Ode to a Migrant Worker’s Feet

feet

are

calloused

and so cracked

like rocks in plowed ground

she walks over the land barefooted

as her abuelo turns the earth with donkey and plow

she has the feet of her abuelo, for she walks beside him down the long row of beans

her abuelo walks down the rows until his feet are broken and bent by genuflecting to land or the land owner

when her feet are in the soil, it is as if they are the land, as if they hold the secrets of the earth, the mystery of seed, dirt, water

becoming a bean in a pod, a kernel on an ear of corn, a red tomato

her heart is in her feet, in the land, the mystery

feet speak, "Estoy aquí," "I'm here"

feet are signs to us

"I'm human"

"I'm

here"

- Trevor Scott Barton, ‘Poems for a Brown-Eyed Girl,’ 2021

Street Writing

I’m a street writer, which simply means I wander and wonder through the streets and write about who I meet, what I see and hear, when and where I’m wandering and wondering, why I think things are the way they are around me, and how I think they could be more human.

A street writer.

One of the serendipities of being a street writer is bumping into other street writers during my wanderings and wonderings.

Today, I bumped into Blue.

He was sitting on a brick wall by the sidewalk near the Poinsett Hotel.

There was a small stack of books beside him.

“Hey,” I greeted him. “Did you write those books?”

“Yea,” he answered. “They’re poems I wrote and turned into chapbooks.”

“Are you from Greenville?” I asked.

“No, I’m from Harlem. A Harlem poet.”

“Wow!” I said. I love Harlem. Great art comes from there. It’s an honor to meet you.

I’m a writer, too.

I’m from Greenville. A Greenville writer.”

We gave each other a fist bumps.

“It’s an honor to meet you, too,” he said.

He told me his story about being a writer.

I told him mine.

He’s read poems at The Bowery Poetry Club and Open Mic at Under Saint Marks in NYC, some famous places for poetry sharing.

“How much you sellin’ your chapbook for?” I asked.

“Ten dollars,” he answered.

I handed him a ten spot and he handed me a book.

I know how much heart, soul, mind, strength and body you put into writing, so I held his chapbook with deep gratitude and appreciation.

It’s titled ‘Corner Stores In The Middle Of The Block.’

I love the way it begins.

“The good thing about learning a new language is…you must think…before you speak…”

My, my, my.

Yes, yes, yes.

How true, how true.

“Can I sign my book for you, my friend?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “That would make my day.”

He took out an old pen from a plastic bag and scribbled, “Peace Bro. Thanks a million. Blue. July 2021.”

Thanks a million to you, too, Blue.

Thanks for being a writer.

A street writer.

Thanks for being you.

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