The Blue Swallows, by Howard Nemerov

Across the millstream below the bridge
Seven blue swallows divide the air
In shapes invisible and evanescent,
Kaleidoscopic beyond the mind’s
Or memory’s power to keep them there.

“History is where tensions were,”
“Form is the diagram of forces.”
Thus, helplessly, there on the bridge,
While gazing down upon those birds—
How strange, to be above the birds!—
Thus helplessly the mind in its brain
Weaves up relation’s spindrift web
Seeing the swallows’ tails as nibs
Dipped in invisible ink, writing . . .

Poor mind, what would you have them write?
Some cabalistic history
Whose authorship you might ascribe
To God? to Nature? Ah, poor ghost,
You’ve capitalized your Self enough.
That villainous William of Occam
Cut out the feet from under that dream
Some seven centuries ago.
It’s taken that long for the mind
To waken, yawn and stretch, to see
With opened eyes emptied of speech
The real world where the spelling mind
Imposes with its grammar book

Unreal relations on the blue 

Swallows. Perhaps when you will have

Fully awakened, I shall show you
A new thing: even the water
Flowing away beneath those birds
Will fail to reflect their flying forms,
And the eyes that see become as stones
Whence never tears shall fall gain.

O swallows, swallows, poems are not
The point. Finding again the world,
That is the point, where loveliness
Adorns intelligible things
Because the mind’s eye lit the sun.

What would you write?

Dear Symposians,

I have another poem to share, and this time with some spindrift analysis.  The poem is another one by someone else: The Blue Swallows, by Howard Nemerov. The analysis is a parsing of the poem’s abundant allegories.

I first planned on sending this just to Dan, as I thought he might be more receptive to my urge to deconstruct, but then I remembered that I had once shared a few lines of this with you, Anne, and then I discovered some Stillwater symbolism in the poem, and then I realized how much this poem reminds me of the birds of Windmill Creaks (the swallows at the millstream, and a midstream tie to of one of my most Windmill Creakish poems (“What would you write, Ruben...”).   With all of that, I knew I had to post this on the Water-blog.

For those interested in the allegories, my fascination was how this poem brought together so many subjects of which I know next to nothing (D’Arcy Thompson’s force diagrams, Jung’s archetypal Self, Occam’s Razor, the Kaballah, the Vedas, Plato’s Allegory of the Cave, Plotinus’s Enneads, even a Hamlet allegory), and how ironic it was that the poem would pique my interests in these subjects before ultimately directing me to find the world again and see things without the “spelling mind.”

I purposefully found the allegories on my own, with the help of Google and Wikipedia but without reading anyone else’s analysis of the poem.  Occam’s razor was easy enough, because I had actually heard of that before, and the author of the second quoted passage was quickly revealed (Thompson), but it took me a while to learn that the first quote is a less common translation from Marx’s manifesto.  I wasn’t keen on embarking further into communism, let alone delving into an introduction to cabalistic history or Jung’s capitalized Self. But the kaleidoscope of allegories kept appearing.  From Hamlet, “ Alas, poor ghost.” From the Vedas, Brhadaranyaka Upanishad (I.3.28): “From the unreal lead me to the Real.”  From Plotinus: “Never did eye see the sun unless it had first become sun-like.”  Or more expositively, from Plato’s Republic: “Any one who has common sense will remember that the bewilderments of the eyes are of two kinds, and arise from two causes, either from coming out of the light or from going into the light, which is true of the mind's eye, quite as much as of the bodily eye.”

What led to all of this?  Wanting to pick a poem, other than one of my own, to memorize. I’ve always liked this poem but never fully understood it, and I thought a quick study would help me commit it to memory.  And it has.  I’ve done it! Memorized it, I mean; I think I’m only about halfway to understanding it.

And why, again, this interest in memory work?  In getting back to those walking hours in the mornings and afternoons (birding interests having been set aside by full time parenting duties, then being more directly replaced by having a dog to pull me along), I have found it invigorating to exercise more than the legs.

But why do I bring this to the Stillwater Symposia?  I suppose Nemerov would say that I am missing the point with this poem, and yet in our own way, with this blog, we are finding the world again.   But there’s more.  I’ve got a paraphrase, just for you symposians.  And in my efforts to understand this poem, I don’t think the poet would mind if I brought God back into it (as long as he was not too Selfish, or political, or scientific, or cabalistic, or presupposed).

O sister, brothers, water is not
The point.  Watching it flow, that
Is the point, and celebrating
Truth at every shore, because
Our faith has set us free.

Boxing Day

As mentioned yesterday, I’ve added an extra verse to my Christmas eve poem. I was happy to hear all your positive feedback on this one, thank you, but with verses for Mary and Joseph and the shepherds, I knew I still needed this one more. The blog system doesn’t automatically tell you about edits, a good thing sometimes, but please take a look.

The system also doesn’t alert everyone to particular comments, but Dan has had a few insightful ones to me lately, and I actually explained a little about this poem in a comment I made to Dan. I was inspired in part by a Good Friday sermon by S.M. Lockridge that had a certain cadence to it. The parenthetical sometimeses are meant to help set this cadence, and I’ve found that this poem reads just as well, maybe better, if you skip some of the sometimes (excepting the nonparenthetical one) and just give that much of a pause to those parts of the poem.

One more time, Merry Christmas! It was good to see you all yesterday, Dan’s family included! One of these days, I’ll figure out Skype too.

Christmas Eve 2011

It’s cold outside (sometimes)
and it might snow (sometimes)
I feel the wind (sometimes)
but Sunday’s coming.

As we grow old (sometimes)
we drift apart (sometimes)
a thousand miles (sometimes),
but Sunday’s coming.

Memories stir. I hear a song
that makes me smile, and I start singing.

I don’t know where these winds will blow
but I believe that Sunday’s coming.

—

They count on us (sometimes)
though we are strangers (sometimes)
far from home (sometimes)
but Sunday’s coming.

And travel’s tough (sometimes)
and there’s no room (sometimes),
we’re all alone (sometimes)
but Sunday’s coming.

And we take comfort where we can,
and when it comes it ends up being

all we need. Sometimes a few warm words
are all it takes. Sunday’s coming.

—

Lately I feel (sometimes)
I've worked so hard (sometimes)
the whole night through (sometimes),
but Sunday’s coming,

Out in the fields (sometimes),
out in the dirt (sometimes),
out with the beasts (sometimes),
but Sunday’s coming.

I want to hear what shepherds hear,
and see the things that they’ve been seeing.

I want to stand next to the choir
and hear the song of Sunday's coming.

—

We've come this far (sometimes)
from distant lands (sometimes)
to see a child's eyes.
Sunday's coming.

And we've brought gifts (sometimes)
fit for a king (sometimes)
into this country barn.
Sunday's coming.

I want to see what wise men see.
I want to go where they are going.

I want to know the light that leads
to Christmas time and Sundays coming.

Cesky Lev (Czech Lion)

An old man, Shklovsky, in 'eighty-one, argued

that poets rarely last into their old age.

And if they do, they become ministers of small

republics. One hopes that Havel has a more

lasting legacy than proving Shklovsky right.

He was the sole cesky lev left in the land.

For all the mythos of the two-tailed Aslan

that feigns a ferocious rule fair and wide—a

Charles the Fourth, a Good King Wenceslas (looked out),

a Masaryk that never needed roar—but

ever staked a human-ness between the dread

regimes: Hapsburgs in their catholic birthright,

the Nazis in their nihil schtadt, the Marxists…

God, the Marxists, who bade the bloody day to

Brezhnev, who flushed it all away.  So Vaclav

rallied what he could—an isle of misfit toys—

to sign the future of their fate. No Dubcek

now to abdicate, nor suicidal flames;

on paper thin as samizdat he got the

names of levs like him and gently gave them in.

You’d think it wouldn’t make a dent—Helsinki

human rights accords are nothing if not weak.

Then tender all the mice to squeak and maybe

(as with Gandhi) the march is more than making

salt. Truth and love over lies and hate. Amen.

He wanted to say so in his plays. Alas,

they simpered into hidden deeps—along with

Hrabel’s bar-room breath, they reeled about in jest.

Theatre of the true absurd, here Havel

didn’t object. Truth and love over lies and…

Now we're suddenly without him. Lions in

this world are slim.  I guess the two tails are to

tell which way we’ve come from, or to sway us not

toward one side or the other. We’ve seen extremes

and know they’re not to die for. Live long, dear Lev.

Merry Christmas, all!

This morning’s email didn’t say who had actually posted Journey of the Magi, and I was intrigued.  Was this Mom? Anne?  The blogsite told me it was Dan of course, but the temporary mystery was compelling, and seeing it there on the blog I was inspired to read the poem again, this time out loud.   I have put my kids through this kind of thing more than they care for, but this morning, maybe in the spirit of Christmas, they resisted groaning and even seemed to listen and appreciate the recital.  When I was done I asked, “What do you think? Publishable?”  After an earnest pause, Kirsten said, “Yes.”  I suspect Mr. Eliot would be grateful.

Poetry works best when spoken aloud.   I went on to read your earlier blog, Dan, the email of which for some reason I had not seen, and I was immediately reminded of another, less famous person who had died last week: Christopher Hitchens.   He was a journalist who I do not remember ever reading, but apparently he wrote boldly and he had a lot of respect among his peers, several of whom devoted column-length eulogies in the Tribune.   From Clarence Page: 

“It seemed at first that he had refused or forgotten the host's request to bring, instead of gifts, a poem to read at the party. But when his turn came, he smoothly recited a touchingly appropriate work by William Butler Yeats without hesitation or a hint of uncertainty. This brought applause and a request for an encore, which he granted without the blink of an eye. He seemed to have a library of literature in his head.”

I do not have such a library, but I am appreciating lately, by memorizing a few of my own poems or helping Andrew with Confirmation bible verses, but just as much by reading good things put in front of me, how rich it can be to recite or read something aloud.   A few weeks ago Kirsten’s homework inspired me to read Huck Finn Chapter 31 aloud (“You can’t pray a lie”).  A few Sundays ago I felt privileged to be a lector in church, reading the beginnings of Luke’s Christmas story (“Nothing is impossible with God”).

A year-end thanks, to Dan for inspiring and advancing this Symposia idea and to everyone for keeping it going.  And do not feel that you need something original to post here.   It’s all good!

Journey of the Magi

'A cold coming we had of it,
Just the worst time of year
For a journey, and such a long journey:
The ways deep and the weather sharp,
The very dead of winter.'
And the camels galled, sore-footed, refractory,
Lying down in the melting snow.
There were times we regretted
The summer palaces on slopes, the terraces,
And the silken girls bringing sherbet.
Then the camel men cursing and grumbling
And running away, and wanting their liquor and women,
And the night-fires going out, and the lack of shelters,
And the cities hostile and the towns unfriendly
And the vilages dirty and charging high prices:
A hard time we had of it.
At the end we preferred to travel all night,
Sleeping in snatches,
With the voices singing in our ears, saying
That this was all folly.

   Then at dawn we came down to a temperate valley,
Wet, below the snow line, smelling of vegetation;
With a running stream and a water-mill beating the darkness,
And three trees on the low sky,
And an old white horse galloped away in the meadow.
Then we came to a tavern with vine-leaves over the lintel,
Six hands at an open door dicing for pieces of silver,
And feet kicking the empty wine-skins.
But there was no information, and so we continued
And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon
Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory.

   All this was a long time ago, I remember,
And I would do it again, but set down
This set down
This: were we led all that way for
Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly,
We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death,
But had thought they were different; this Birth was
Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death.
We returned to our places, these Kingdoms,
But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,
With an alien people clutching their gods.
I should be glad of another death.

T.S. Eliot, "Journey of the Magi" (1930)

in memorium: Vaclav Havel (1936-2011)

The news today strikes me viscerally. Some of our 11th graders are studying Havel's plays, and beyond them, the power of graceful dissidence. From his Letters to Olga, 1980:

"It's strange, and at this moment almost incomprehensible, that a few hours ago we saw each other and were talking as though nothing had happened. Was it true? I suppose so. One never ceases to be amazed."

Also, his general philosophical footprint: "Truth and love must prevail over lies and hatred."

indeed. Sbohem, Vaclave.

Tony's Legacy (or Dadly Advice)

Proud March, ninety-nine

     in a place where Hrabel soared away

Dad died before his time

     set it down—the Word is bound to stay

And I’ll try, odds defy

                 please to get him through this life

Come sing, key of D

     so said Tony — coo as babies do

Daisies? Nevadi

     there’s a world of tunes that you can choose

Start with Bach, lest you talk

                 too much through the key of D

Then you might turn to flight

                 and sing Mother Nature’s Son

Joe grew — babies will

     six-years old he gets his first guitar

Czech flag, fits the bill —

     bridge your fingers, touch the deep blue star

And I’ll try, odds defy

                 please to get him through this life

Sad June, twenty twelve

     saw my mentor wave his work away

Not so — truth to tell

     all resounds, and hear his song today

Key of D, come and sing

     what you never sang before

Nothing’s done—babies run

                 with the things we sing today

Update

The two link errors in my last posting are now fixed.

Mathematics

1

Once one is one and only one:
the perfect unity;
one less than this is emptiness.

One finds one cannot be
without the other; none’s the lover
who can love alone,
  

but when two lovers come together
and become their own
identity they start to see

the journey they’ve begun,
their heart and mind as one combined:
once one is one is one.


2

One unexpressed, no more, no less
than one, will always be
itself, the integer of

individuality
existing to exist. One who
insists without a sound

on keeping his position is
a shadow on the ground,
no more, no less than emptiness,

a countenance unknown,
a spirit unsuspected:
one unmoving, one alone.

3

One added to one more is two,
a plain duality

and nothing less than two, unless
each looks for unity

receptively. Two cannot see
as one as long as one

turns from the other; none’s the lover
who can love alone,

and lonely thus, there is no us
to see for “me” and “you”;

But if there’s “us,” there’s one. We must
adjust our point of view

Or be as lonely marchers, one
plus one forever two....

   

4

One from itself
is none, the self
defying gravity

to find the place
that has no place,
a new reality

of nothingness.
It comes to this:
leave everything behind,

the ground you stand,
the world you wander,
every gravity

that spins you ‘round
and weighs you down;
believe that there can be

somewhere a place
that has no place,
a love that will allow

one to be none,
two to be one:
the self-effacing vow.

D, as in This is the Day

An entry a month is a good goal, Dan, and I like the suggestion. Looking back, I see that I have added nothing much since August, so I guess I should get busy.

It has been a different few months for me, though, even apart from the symposia, to which I have had no new poems at all to offer. I think this has been largely because of my build-up to the pinnacle event of this week, last Tuesday, my D Day. Dissolution. Default prove-up. Disavowed. Done. I briefly thought I ought to write a poem for the occasion, but nothing seemed to come of it. But thanks in part to you, Dan, I am now resolved: Your “Key of D” poem will have a much more positive resonance than anything I might write about divorce, and I will not dwell on trying to create something out of ashes.

Instead, I will offer something from the past. Lately, instead of writing something new, I have been more reflective on some poems already written, trying to work out bugs and, in the course of my daily dog walking, memorizing a few favorites. The memory work started with my Walking Song, which you will now find on these pages completely revised; that’s been followed with Melodia, and Starry Night, and Standing In An Open Field, and Burrowing Owl. Feel free to follow the links to these, but for today, and for this blog, I am offering what I’m working on memorizing next: Mathematics. Yes, there are a few ashes here in this two year old poem, but maybe even some embers to remember.

There are better things to memorize, of course. Andrew is beginning bible verse memory work in confirmation. On his own (inspired by the verse he found posted at the beginning of Ben Mikaelsen’s Petey), he first picked Isaiah 40: 31 (wings of eagles). Then, because he needed an easier one for his next effort, I offered him Psalm 118:24 (This is the day) with its memory-friendly song to go with it. Four more to go! We are told that Jesus wept, John 3:16 and the Lord’s prayer don’t count for this task. Suggestions, anyone?

Finally, I wanted to report that for the first time in three years, we have put up a Christmas tree, and it feels good to get past the hiatus. This too had been for a lot of D-minor reasons; Disc-slippage in 2009, Displaced home in 2010, and even this year I was on the verge of D-claring myself a D-termined iconoclast. Bah! I had even persuaded Kirsten to share my logic. This morning, as I floated the idea of going out to get one today, she told me “Don’t worry Dad, it’s not worth the trouble.” That settled it. An hour later, after quickly throwing up some lights on the front hedges, we were down the block with the dolly. We will decorate tonight. It’s nice to get back to D-major words.

Advent(ure)

Dad loved this cognate, that Advent resonates a sense of adventure (even the treasure island kind). I enjoyed writing 'Advent Emma's turning two' some 5+ years ago and hope to update that soon.

For now, two sketchy reasons for posting here today. Three if I include the perspicacious desire to have Stillwater postings every month (still 25 days left in December, btw):

• Our beloved colleague Tony Ackerman, fellow erstwhile Bop (you've met him, Mom and Dick) and great guitarist, is retiring this year. By May I'll be involved in sundry tributes--I understand a pastiche of 'Fiddler on the Roof' is in the works highlighting the 'tradition' he represents at our school. Meanwhile, I want to work on a poem dedicated to him for a memory book we'll give him. Of all the fatherly advice I got in 1999, I remember his very clearly: play music to your infant Joey in the key of D. I did, and songs like "Go to Sleep You Weary Hobo" and "Dear Prudence" (Tony doesn't adhere much to rock n roll but would love to do a second doctoral thesis--a 'real one', he'd say--on the Beatles' White Album), "Goin' to California" and a few others have been mainstays in our milking-the-cows sessions. I cannot play Bach's aria to suite #3 in D major, but I'm on record for wanting that to feature at my funeral. Tony warms up every day to Bach. I don't know exactly how to craft this poem, and of course I could try to compose a song for him...but he has enjoyed when I've made poems for parting colleagues, and I don't know if I want to strain his ear with my hack musicianship.

• My group of ten sophomores comprising an elective course of Journalism this semester (and Creative Writing next) have this as their newsblog so far: http://blogs.isp.cz/news/  Any feedback from y'all would be invaluable--feel free to comment on any story or feature you'd like. We are troubleshooting some interesting territory, like a student using his/her YouTube account to create something for the newsblog and then, unwittingly, availing whatever other videos YouTube deems worth our follow-up (the infamous 'if you like this, maybe you'd like this...').

So not much of an Advent reflection here--Josh, can you supply the theology we forever need?--but December is here, days are busy, you're all in mind and prayers.

And Advent Emma has turned seven. As Dad would say, "Ho!"

love,
Dan