My family and I have now experienced something which: a)we once thought would never happen to us; and b)tends to be a source of at least passing anxiety for most people at some point in their lives. The fact is that there are more and more of us in this foreclosure boat than ever before. And while I’m sure there are probably foreclosure support groups out there, I never heard of any, likely because people are spending more time trying to dig themselves out of whatever financial hole they found themselves in that led toward their predicament.
But the reality of foreclosure is: a)that no one is alone in that boat, certainly not today, certainly not in this economy; and b)that everyone will respond to their particular situation in their own unique ways. At the worst extreme, I’ve heard one story of a man who, in desperation regarding his family’s situation killed his wife and kids before taking his own life, leaving a note behind shedding light on the depths of hopelessness he had fallen to prompting him to such horrendous acts.
Most of us who share space in that boat, while largely isolated from each other, never come close to such all-consuming feelings of emptiness and despair. Most of us in that boat will ride the waves, the ups and downs from one day to the next that include:
• the work of clawing one’s way up and out of this mire they’re in;
• the glimmer of hope as an opportunity presents itself to pull themselves out of this muck;
• the psychological self-assessments through which one wonders where they went wrong or worse, by which they drag themselves through the mud of self-doubt and shame; or
• the relief of finding out that the bureaucracy of it all lengthens the foreclosure process beyond your initial expectations.
Again, everyone will encounter their own situations in their own unique ways—all I can do is speak to how my family and I dealt with it.
The experience will stretch you out no doubt—you’ll find out things about yourself that you might not have seen otherwise. From a purely practical standpoint, the only way you can successfully navigate the process is with a positive attitude. You cannot spend time wallowing in the negative aspects of it all because this will only spiral you further downward. You will need to learn how to get by on less. And you will do far better learning how to be thankful for what you’ve got, and not dwelling on the things that are lacking.
If you can remember to wake up each morning already thankful for the new day, this can help you frame your approach moving into the day. And while taking on this perspective will never guarantee how the day unfolds or ends, it’s still a whole lot better than drowning in self-pity, wishing things were different. Take charge of your day—focus on the positive and decide to make it a good day; you may be surprised at the benefits taking on this perspective can have.
Essentially, though, along with and beyond this practical approach, experiencing foreclosure was, for me and my kids, a faith journey; and it continues to be. We understand ourselves better; we understand both the imperfection of this human existence, as well as the hope and peace and Spirit that comes, often miraculously, through our focus on God and the goodness, grace, and love that we can only fully understand within that relationship with the Divine.
Take the high road—focus on the things that are truly important. Appreciate the people closest to you, and know that in faith, we’re never given any more than we can handle and will always be able to find the divine resources to help us overcome the adversities of this life.
Monday, March 12, 2012
Sunday, March 11, 2012
"What's it f***in' matter?"
Interesting interaction brother Jon and I had recently…
We were enjoying a meal at a local restaurant after some shop talk at his office when two guys sat down at the bar near our table. At one point one of these guys turns toward us, saying ‘Quick question…’ He pauses, distracted; we’re waiting for the question that never made its way out of his mouth. He says something like ‘Whoa, you’ve got the last of those hats!’ He was referring to the bandannas I was wearing to cover some recent surgery scars on my head. We knew the guy had already had quite a bit to drink; but this interlude was the start of a series of periodic interruptions in our respective discussions.
And by the third such interlude, introductions were made,…kind of,… This distracted distracter says “Hey, I’m Kir…” as we shake hands. In the slur of his inebriation, I didn’t quite catch his name, and sought clarity—‘I’m sorry—was it Kurt? Or Kirk?’ His response was jarring—“What’s it f***in’ matter?” Not sure just how to respond, all I could think of to say was ‘OK, I’ll just call you Cur,’ not really thinking of the potential implications, but given his intoxication, not all that concerned either.
But in his response, suddenly, the harmless benevolence of his tangential banter was marked by a tinge of belligerence. And what was most intriguing in this response was that, somehow, it seemed to define this guy’s MO; this is the paradigm that generally fed his overall response to life.
These interludes continued—none so imminently volatile as that one—but it included toasts, Cur’s invitation to Jon to make a speech, a comparison of all of our relationships at various levels of brokenness, and Cur buying Jon and me a round of beers. All said and done, these intermittent dialogues made for a different type of entertainment at this favorite pub of ours.
And later, after Cur and his buddy left, as we confirmed with our server that Cur had bought us each a beer, we then heard the rest of the story… Cur is a regular at this establishment, the brother of the owner, and there was, on the part of this server, the lingering curiosity as to what Cur’s cab ride home must be like after each visit.
And I s’pose being a fly on the dashboard of that taxi would carry the same level of intrigue as that which Jon and I felt in these intermittent interactions with Cur and his friend that evening. But then again, all things considered regarding Cur, this unique ambassador for the spice of life, “what’s it f***in’ matter?”
We were enjoying a meal at a local restaurant after some shop talk at his office when two guys sat down at the bar near our table. At one point one of these guys turns toward us, saying ‘Quick question…’ He pauses, distracted; we’re waiting for the question that never made its way out of his mouth. He says something like ‘Whoa, you’ve got the last of those hats!’ He was referring to the bandannas I was wearing to cover some recent surgery scars on my head. We knew the guy had already had quite a bit to drink; but this interlude was the start of a series of periodic interruptions in our respective discussions.
And by the third such interlude, introductions were made,…kind of,… This distracted distracter says “Hey, I’m Kir…” as we shake hands. In the slur of his inebriation, I didn’t quite catch his name, and sought clarity—‘I’m sorry—was it Kurt? Or Kirk?’ His response was jarring—“What’s it f***in’ matter?” Not sure just how to respond, all I could think of to say was ‘OK, I’ll just call you Cur,’ not really thinking of the potential implications, but given his intoxication, not all that concerned either.
But in his response, suddenly, the harmless benevolence of his tangential banter was marked by a tinge of belligerence. And what was most intriguing in this response was that, somehow, it seemed to define this guy’s MO; this is the paradigm that generally fed his overall response to life.
These interludes continued—none so imminently volatile as that one—but it included toasts, Cur’s invitation to Jon to make a speech, a comparison of all of our relationships at various levels of brokenness, and Cur buying Jon and me a round of beers. All said and done, these intermittent dialogues made for a different type of entertainment at this favorite pub of ours.
And later, after Cur and his buddy left, as we confirmed with our server that Cur had bought us each a beer, we then heard the rest of the story… Cur is a regular at this establishment, the brother of the owner, and there was, on the part of this server, the lingering curiosity as to what Cur’s cab ride home must be like after each visit.
And I s’pose being a fly on the dashboard of that taxi would carry the same level of intrigue as that which Jon and I felt in these intermittent interactions with Cur and his friend that evening. But then again, all things considered regarding Cur, this unique ambassador for the spice of life, “what’s it f***in’ matter?”
Saturday, March 10, 2012
The (Unofficial) Feast of St. Patrick
In our university town, St. Patrick’s Feast Day is actually a movable feast, celebrated on a day several days before March 17th. In response to irresponsible green beer drinking by coeds, University administrators smartly changed the school’s Spring Break vacation to fall on St. Patrick’s Day, thus eliminating the conflict between academic pursuit and 9AM green beer drunkenness.
And in response to this move, college bar owners smartly dedicated a new holy day: Unofficial St. Patrick’s Day, a day celebrating St. Patrick’s Feast Day while classes are still in session.
So thankfully, disruptive revelry can continue.
Our town braces for “Unofficial” like a Class 4 hurricane. And to be honest, I think I’d rather see a Toyota rammed into a Jimmy John’s window than needy suburban 19-year-old coeds wearing tight green shirts that say Kiss Me in a barely covert way to redeem their not-hotness. It’s an ugly celebration, for sure. Lacking the rich tradition of Rio’s Carnival or New Orleans’ Mardi Gras, this celebration is just a big frat party. A frat party full of guys who weren’t invited to join a frat, and Urban Outfitters salesgirls who are looking for love (from said guys who weren’t invited to join a frat). Public drunkenness and green wrist bands and shouted Valley Girl speak is the order of the day. It’s pretty lame.
So I’d like to improve on this (Unofficial) St. Patrick’s Feast Day, instructing these eager Catholics* on how to celebrate tastefully, in real Irish style.
1. Beer. Hand me that stupid Solo cup of green Bud Light and let’s drink a decent beer. Guinness is a better beer that is traditionally Irish and tasty. It’s tall, it’s dark and it’s handsome - and that’s pretty good for a stout. So let’s raise a glass of gratitude and toast the tastiest thing coming out of Ireland for the last 253 years. Sláinte!
2. Dress. OK, all you spray-tanned ladies in the hoooouuussse! I get it. I understand that you’re trying to look cute to get the attention of cute boys. So why do you look like trash? I’m going to tell you how I would dress if I still had a hot body. First of all, forget those promotional green t-shirts; they’re not doing you any favors. Instead I’d go for a pretty, strapless top in a tasteful Irish linen. It’s 2012, and I know you’re not going to part with your skinny jeans, so those will do. And I’m not a St. Patrick’s Scrooge: I’d still wear green and gold, but how about moss green eyeshadow, and gold peep-toe wedges and gold hoop earrings? There! Now you’re the right kind of attractive, and you just may attract a guy that you won’t be embarrassed to talk about in the morning.
3. Music. Please, if for just one day: turn off the Lady Gaga (awful) and the Taylor Swift (even worse) and catch some Irish music at a pub, instead. Irish music is some of my favorite music and I promise you’ll thank me: it’s fun to drink and dance to.
4. Adornment. The shiny green plastic Mardi Gras beads are an embarrassment to the shorties stumbling about wearing them. Declaring their tacky mea culpa to the world, these beads are no good. Women either didn’t actually flash someone to get these beads, or they shouldn’t have. There is no third option. So instead, put on a Claddagh Necklace and have some class. (And really, you can play this tasteful piece as “Good Girl” as you like.) With the best of traditional Irish style, Claddagh jewelry has timeless elegance, and you’ll be able to respect yourself in the morning.
5. Decorum. Shouting “I Love Beer!” at passing cars is never appropriate. Or cool. (I Love Infomercials, but you don’t hear me shouting about it, now do you?) For respectable revelry, take a lesson from The Irish Handbook of Drinking and Revelry: First, drink several beers in quick succession. Stand up and lead fellow revelers in an Irish drinking song. Drink three more beers in quick succession. Stand up, knocking over chair, and pick fight with your brother that “Mom always lorvved b-best” [sic]. Blubber and cry. Apologize and hug Mom’s F-favorite Son. Drink two beers in quick succession. Repeat.
6. Food. Corned beef and cabbage, loaded potato skins, and Irish nachos in a pub at 2AM? Perfect. Don’t change a thing.
* I can only assume that these revelers must be devout Catholics, for who else would celebrate a saint’s feast day. Right?
And in response to this move, college bar owners smartly dedicated a new holy day: Unofficial St. Patrick’s Day, a day celebrating St. Patrick’s Feast Day while classes are still in session.
So thankfully, disruptive revelry can continue.
Our town braces for “Unofficial” like a Class 4 hurricane. And to be honest, I think I’d rather see a Toyota rammed into a Jimmy John’s window than needy suburban 19-year-old coeds wearing tight green shirts that say Kiss Me in a barely covert way to redeem their not-hotness. It’s an ugly celebration, for sure. Lacking the rich tradition of Rio’s Carnival or New Orleans’ Mardi Gras, this celebration is just a big frat party. A frat party full of guys who weren’t invited to join a frat, and Urban Outfitters salesgirls who are looking for love (from said guys who weren’t invited to join a frat). Public drunkenness and green wrist bands and shouted Valley Girl speak is the order of the day. It’s pretty lame.
So I’d like to improve on this (Unofficial) St. Patrick’s Feast Day, instructing these eager Catholics* on how to celebrate tastefully, in real Irish style.
1. Beer. Hand me that stupid Solo cup of green Bud Light and let’s drink a decent beer. Guinness is a better beer that is traditionally Irish and tasty. It’s tall, it’s dark and it’s handsome - and that’s pretty good for a stout. So let’s raise a glass of gratitude and toast the tastiest thing coming out of Ireland for the last 253 years. Sláinte!
2. Dress. OK, all you spray-tanned ladies in the hoooouuussse! I get it. I understand that you’re trying to look cute to get the attention of cute boys. So why do you look like trash? I’m going to tell you how I would dress if I still had a hot body. First of all, forget those promotional green t-shirts; they’re not doing you any favors. Instead I’d go for a pretty, strapless top in a tasteful Irish linen. It’s 2012, and I know you’re not going to part with your skinny jeans, so those will do. And I’m not a St. Patrick’s Scrooge: I’d still wear green and gold, but how about moss green eyeshadow, and gold peep-toe wedges and gold hoop earrings? There! Now you’re the right kind of attractive, and you just may attract a guy that you won’t be embarrassed to talk about in the morning.
3. Music. Please, if for just one day: turn off the Lady Gaga (awful) and the Taylor Swift (even worse) and catch some Irish music at a pub, instead. Irish music is some of my favorite music and I promise you’ll thank me: it’s fun to drink and dance to.
4. Adornment. The shiny green plastic Mardi Gras beads are an embarrassment to the shorties stumbling about wearing them. Declaring their tacky mea culpa to the world, these beads are no good. Women either didn’t actually flash someone to get these beads, or they shouldn’t have. There is no third option. So instead, put on a Claddagh Necklace and have some class. (And really, you can play this tasteful piece as “Good Girl” as you like.) With the best of traditional Irish style, Claddagh jewelry has timeless elegance, and you’ll be able to respect yourself in the morning.
5. Decorum. Shouting “I Love Beer!” at passing cars is never appropriate. Or cool. (I Love Infomercials, but you don’t hear me shouting about it, now do you?) For respectable revelry, take a lesson from The Irish Handbook of Drinking and Revelry: First, drink several beers in quick succession. Stand up and lead fellow revelers in an Irish drinking song. Drink three more beers in quick succession. Stand up, knocking over chair, and pick fight with your brother that “Mom always lorvved b-best” [sic]. Blubber and cry. Apologize and hug Mom’s F-favorite Son. Drink two beers in quick succession. Repeat.
6. Food. Corned beef and cabbage, loaded potato skins, and Irish nachos in a pub at 2AM? Perfect. Don’t change a thing.
* I can only assume that these revelers must be devout Catholics, for who else would celebrate a saint’s feast day. Right?
Denouement
To KC, on her first graduation
If I were the falconer
I might never let go;
I’d hold on to the tether
and you’d learn how to fly
in small circles around me:
I’d want you to know
the spirit of freedom,
so I’d give you the sky
in gradual increments,
ever so slowly
releasing you outward
and upward, and I
would remain in the center
within and below you,
the turn of your wild
and the ground to your sky,
the tame of your will
and the stage for your show,
but the one who allows you
the power to fly
is the one who eventually
has to let go.
I am not the falconer;
I don’t rule your sky,
nor would I deny you
the winds of your freedom,
but I will stand fast
in the fields you came from
calling your name out
and watching you fly.
A Consideration For Lent
Last night over beers, a guy named Kur... Josh, you can pick it up from here.
Things not to blog about... Oh, never mind.
I will stick with what I was going to blog about before the beers. It is March. In our neck of the woods it started out warmer than usual, then got windy and cold again, and then this week the blackbirds started singing. Everything to its season.
I haven’t written any new poems lately, largely because I have been returning and spending time with older poems, some of mine for the sake of trying to improve them but more often the poems of other people. Yes, including yours Dan, but you are in company lately with my returning to old favorites by Yeats and Whitman and Frost and Stevens. And I am memorizing some of these poems, and in the course understanding and appreciating them more.
I never understood, for instance, what Yeats really meant by “twenty centuries of stony sleep ...vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle.” The line even troubled me. What was doing the vexing? The cradle? The child within the cradle? Could this be blasphemy? Apostasy? But now I know, and, as it turns out, it is a perfectly appropriate consideration for Lent. It cannot be the cradle, an inanimate object. It cannot be the child, who after all left the cradle and grew to become a man. The cradle is empty, and yet for twenty centuries we have kept rocking it and ultimately setting ourselves up for some rough beast to take the child’s place. We are the vexers - we humans, we sinners, we falcons and desert birds and attenders of ceremony. Meanwhile the man went on and suffered and died and was placed into a tomb, and now the tomb is empty, too, but we forget this and we keep circling in our widening gyre, looking for some different Easter....
I was going to share a different poem, something about blackbirds or March. Instead I’ll give you this, my poem for Kirsten’s eight grade graduation, revised a little in the course of memorizing it. Let your children go, but teach them well. Sunday’s coming.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
our little workshop
A curious feature of this blogspot.com is that posts are sent to recipients at first publication but not in the tinkerings that may follow. So, if I tinkered with this very post after I press 'publish', you wouldn't perhaps know any changes I've made. Jon points out also that replies (always welcome) aren't set to be email alerts beyond to the originator of any given post.
Some changes are miniscule, important no less: Katerina advised that I change the "Amen" at the end of the new guinea pigs poem, and she's right. It's foolish to end an Orwellian Newspeak 'fact' with a holy 'so let it be'. I just liked linking Pushkin into the mix, adding his 5th (now heavenly) presence into the family of 4.
Some changes are rather huge, and that is what I just did to a still mediocre (but no longer awful) poem called "A fish called Haver". I wrote that one in a negative aspect and didn't even proof it when I hit publish. A typo like "predecent" late in the poem was of course supposed to be "precedent", but that wasn't the worst of it: I had no clear plan about the damnable side of the story, and still probably don't. At least now I feel it is gentler and indeed better proofed.
And that's what any of us can do here, in this little workshop/symposia. Joey and I constructed a basketball stand yesterday from a kit that had packed the wrong instructions. Katerina had ordered it online and it was a truly great surprise birthday present (which had to wait for warmer weather to put up). Complicated enough for its break-away rim springs and adjustable levers, Joe and I scratched our heads also to look for ratchet sockets and clamps and all sorts of tools strewn in our quite messy garage. But, as they say with worn books, that messy garage has enabled a lot of neat projects (inspired by Grandparents Elstad, Don Lamken, et al). I clean it occasionally, but don't mind so much if a couple projects--read: posts--go by with quick release.
And, to be sure, poems don't have to have the safety controls of, say, new shelves and stairs. I hope to post well, but I'm glad for that chance to revise.
Some changes are miniscule, important no less: Katerina advised that I change the "Amen" at the end of the new guinea pigs poem, and she's right. It's foolish to end an Orwellian Newspeak 'fact' with a holy 'so let it be'. I just liked linking Pushkin into the mix, adding his 5th (now heavenly) presence into the family of 4.
Some changes are rather huge, and that is what I just did to a still mediocre (but no longer awful) poem called "A fish called Haver". I wrote that one in a negative aspect and didn't even proof it when I hit publish. A typo like "predecent" late in the poem was of course supposed to be "precedent", but that wasn't the worst of it: I had no clear plan about the damnable side of the story, and still probably don't. At least now I feel it is gentler and indeed better proofed.
And that's what any of us can do here, in this little workshop/symposia. Joey and I constructed a basketball stand yesterday from a kit that had packed the wrong instructions. Katerina had ordered it online and it was a truly great surprise birthday present (which had to wait for warmer weather to put up). Complicated enough for its break-away rim springs and adjustable levers, Joe and I scratched our heads also to look for ratchet sockets and clamps and all sorts of tools strewn in our quite messy garage. But, as they say with worn books, that messy garage has enabled a lot of neat projects (inspired by Grandparents Elstad, Don Lamken, et al). I clean it occasionally, but don't mind so much if a couple projects--read: posts--go by with quick release.
And, to be sure, poems don't have to have the safety controls of, say, new shelves and stairs. I hope to post well, but I'm glad for that chance to revise.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
March 1st (or early April Fools)
Lost in my menagerie are
any set of rules, like:
2 + 2, Winston Smith, is 4, or
spay your housepets when you can
or… well, take what comes and
give what goes and may
the spirits guide the rest.
Our lady guinea pigs,
Tanya and Rosinka, realized
what we didn’t, that they
could make a little family.
The company they kept sufficed,
we thought: they chortled day
and in the cloak of night.
They ate lustily and Rozinka
grew fat; she sat in my lap
while Joe and I played chess,
and Tanya squirmed and squeaked
in Joe’s. We’d trade and finish up
the game, then put the girlfriends back.
Mom brought the pair to school
to teach her pupils what they were;
Rozinka’s eyes bulged big and scared
and Tanya danced to kids’ delight.
Emma said, some mornings after,
“Dad, I think I see some babes!”
Absurd, of course, and we are late—
I like the practice prank alright
and hustle us to start our day.
Thank God the hyperactive Tanya
didn’t chomp those cherubim apart:
We came home to the truth of Em’s
observance: 2 + 2 is 4, even if
with moms it should have been an i,
or any such imaginary sum.
We have, despite the rules,
a family—a found menagerie
and (lest we forgot in all this
shuffle) a generation Pushkin passed:
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
A fish called 'Haver'
OK
plenty of problems to deal with
today,
sounding with O
and starting with
K:
my friend,
Kevin Haverty is sixty
today;
we knew him a
half-decade less—
he’s
here, in
this poem, he’s been on my mind. His
woe-be-
gone fish has died
on my my time
and
I don’t
really know how to put that to rhyme:
he asked
on our last day
of work, “won’t you
please
take this
negligent burden from
me?
Every
fish else I’ve man-
aged to dump. Just
this
lonely
last sucker and
I can
go free. It’s faith-
fully cleaned this
tank
and will
yours.” I told him a lie—that I’d toss
the blame
fish out my car
window on my
drive
home. “Me
too—so you see where
we stand. I got
luggage
to pack and much
on my mind.
Please.”
So I
did. I bagged the poor catfish and
hurried
on home. I rolled
down the window
and
hurled out
a prayer. King Lear came to mind: “Poor
naked
wretches, wheresoe’er
you are. I have
ta’en
too little
care of this.” Then “this set down this
set down
this” jettisoned
in—a blurring
of
Magi
in Eliot’s play. I took the
doomed fish
and stared at its
frown. ‘This set down
frown. ‘This set down
this set
down this.’…
The drive ended home, I dumped the
black load
in the depth of
my tank, too much
ta’en
with poor
fishes like it, I let him swim
free, and
he did. He lived
full in his fate
and
he died
yesterday. The other fish pecked
at his
body at rest.
I didn’t know then
that
he was
n’t with us. Divining his source,
his chaver,
he was—for here’s
where other pro-
blems
begin.
His name (if I gave it) was ‘Haver’
for ‘friend’.
In Gaelic it’s
Nonsense—a bab-
bling
end. But
Haver is how I referred to
the fish:
“How goes, little
chaver, and how
are
you out-
swimming Kevin, who died yester-
year? Your
cancer was cured
—his not—hard to
take
cheer…” but
I’ll never presume. Here’s food for
your day.
You died when I
wanted your world
yet
to stay.
You faithfully hoovered the brack
of my
tank. You friended
poor wretches, the
least
of these
fishes, and how now we honor
your life
and your trade? How
silly it seems,
how
terri-
bly vain. From one dying hand to
kindred
shell game, never
to gamble a-
gain.
Now hush,
little chaver (your semblance to Bach),
take cheer
and no nonsense
and ultimate
calm
that this
set down this is what everyone
gains in
forgettable flits
and cleansing re-
mains
You did
what you needed, for us and for
you. You
lived and then died,
for us to cons-
true...
or not—
to fathom, I'm over my head:
a man-be-
gone fish is (shall
we say?) god-damned
dead.
Not here
to flaunt what we know is the law—my
father
‘God damned’ only
once in recall
and
surely
not over a scarpering fish, nor
a screed
about someone
who crossed a mere
line.
It was,
rather, an inchoate jab at
dispa-
rate deeds. We suck
what we want, we
sieve
what we
need and we live or we die on that
fragile
thneed. Bemoan the
poor precedent
that
buries
this plea: we’re poor naked wretches
who pine
less to be free
and more to be
known
as hav-
er, as friend, as nonsense
can be.
as fish
or foul, as man
(rest in grace) as
me.
Friday, February 17, 2012
Baptism of Joshua Paul
(Sermon by Joseph Vold, October 12, 1969)
TEXT: John 9: 24-41
If we had a person here in our midst who had been blind from the day he was born, and now on this day, he hears the word of a physician —and follows it and of a sudden —he is no longer blind but can see —SAY WE WITNESSED THIS we would be overwhelmed by the event. He was blind, but now he can see —oh,! we would be amazed by the fact! We would be mightily impressed, and would never forget it.
BUT THAT HAPPENED HERE TODAY IN OUR VERY MIDST. Through baptism. It has happened to this child, Joshua Paul.
In the catacombs of Rome where early Christians gathered to hide from hostile authorities to keep from being killed and to live and to worship, they left on the walls frescoes, pictures of what they treasured. The story of the man born blind appears seven times in catacomb art, most frequently as an illustration of Christian baptism. This story was taken by the early church as an interpretation of what happens in baptism.
When the early Christians were about to baptize a person who had been prepared and was brought forward to be a member of the Body of Christ, i.e. the church, they read Chapter 9 of John —the story of the man born blind and healed through washing —they read this chapter together.
The early Church Fathers referred to baptism as the washing away of blindness. Tertullian opened his book (or tract) on baptism with the words ‘Happy is the sacrament of our water, in that, by washing away the sins of our early blindness, we are set free unto eternal life.’
Augustine comments on our text: “This blindman stands for the human race ....if the blindness is lack of faith, then the seeing (illumination) is faith .... He washes his eyes in that pool which is
interpreted ‘one who has been sent’; he was baptized in Christ.”
I would like to draw from the entire ninth chapter of John for our sermon today to show what God does in baptism.
FOR THE MAN BORN BLIND WHO IS MET BY CHRIST AND HIS LOVING ACTION: Instead of darkness or blindness, there is light and ability to see. There is much stress on the fact that the man in our text was born blind. It is mentioned —this fact of being blind at birth —no less than seven times.
Now when we consider a little child —that cuddly little bundle who is so winning —mostly because he is so small and helpless and dependent —we overlook this fact of his being blind. Unless he is enlightened, unless he receives the vision of God he will remain in darkness —He will not know who he is and what he came into the world for. But Christ comes and brings enlightenment starting with the washing of baptism. The one who has the Christ and his light through faith has the vision of God.
But how can such a little child be enlightened? He does not know, surely he does not know what is going on. He cannot have faith or comprehension. So some will argue.
The only way this little one is going to know of Christ (have the vision of God) is if the church loves him —and, loving him, teach him of the good news we have. The first and second —and third lesson —and all the way through the last lesson we teach should be this: God loves you so much that he has adopted you to be his own, and we, the church, love and care for you as a brother. You start teaching that lesson from the very first day. We know that an infant child may not understand much but he surely feeds on love —and he is nourished by the love that people can give to him. The parents can love him just because Christ has loved us and gave His life for us. The parents can be patient and forgive because Christ forgives us and is patient with us and keeps bringing us back.
The child is going to know of Christ as the church shows care for him. The child will know of Christ as people in the church live the life of Christ, live the way of the cross in the community. He will not know the fullness of the faith as a baby or as a little boy —or as a young man. BUT LOVE CANNOT FAIL. He will know someday. He will know the greatness of what has happened to him in the claim of God in baptism —the miracle of new life —someday I believe that. I am filled with high hope for him because of the Word of God.
Now in the ninth chapter of John we see a gradual dawning —an increase in knowledge for this man who received his sight from Jesus.
The Jews —it is the way of the world with, or against, the baptized —would not accept that Jesus had accomplished the restoring of sight to this blind man. They hounded the man who had been born blind. “How were your eyes opened?” The man Jesus did it. “Where is he?” I don’t know.
Later on they wanted to press him further on this matter so they asked, “What do you say about Jesus?” The former blind man said: He is a prophet.
Now in the part of the chapter that is the text for today the Pharisees (or Jews) are pressing him again and are trying to teach that Christ is not good or able to heal blindness. The man says plainly to them: I don’t know whether Jesus is a sinner or not, but once I was blind, now I can see. The man has great power.
Growing recognition of the fact and the power of Jesus as the one who gives light and goodness in life —This is the thing that happens to the child who is brought up in the baptismal covenant. He doesn’t know all the answers about Jesus, but he learns of his life and his power —because of what Christ —and the Body of Christ —can do and has done for him.
When the man who had been born blind answers the Pharisees that someone who does such great things —so good —has got to be from God —he gets clobbered by the Jews. The baptized, who live by their baptism, may share the same reaction from the world —but they hold fast to Christ who gives light and life.
Finally this man is confronted again by the Christ who tells him who he is and asks, “Do you believe?” He said, “Lord, I believe,” and he worshiped him.
The child who is baptized may not know the fullness of the truth of Christ, but as he experiences the power of God through the Church —through loving people as well as the Word and Sacraments —he will one day also fall down and worship Jesus as the Lord.
He will someday know how much he needed this act of baptism, this washing away of blindness of the natural man. He will someday know how necessary it was for God to come to him and to give forgiveness and light. He will know that he passed from blindness to the vision of God through Christ (Once I was blind —now I can see). He will know it because of the church, the caring, faithful, loving, teaching, acting church. And he will be glad for the judgment of God. The judgment of God upon this little one baptized here today is YES, you are my child.
That’s what I want to teach him to know the rest of the years I have to be his earthly father and his brother in the church. Will you help me to teach him that?
AMEN: YES, YES and it shall be so.
TEXT: John 9: 24-41
If we had a person here in our midst who had been blind from the day he was born, and now on this day, he hears the word of a physician —and follows it and of a sudden —he is no longer blind but can see —SAY WE WITNESSED THIS we would be overwhelmed by the event. He was blind, but now he can see —oh,! we would be amazed by the fact! We would be mightily impressed, and would never forget it.
BUT THAT HAPPENED HERE TODAY IN OUR VERY MIDST. Through baptism. It has happened to this child, Joshua Paul.
In the catacombs of Rome where early Christians gathered to hide from hostile authorities to keep from being killed and to live and to worship, they left on the walls frescoes, pictures of what they treasured. The story of the man born blind appears seven times in catacomb art, most frequently as an illustration of Christian baptism. This story was taken by the early church as an interpretation of what happens in baptism.
When the early Christians were about to baptize a person who had been prepared and was brought forward to be a member of the Body of Christ, i.e. the church, they read Chapter 9 of John —the story of the man born blind and healed through washing —they read this chapter together.
The early Church Fathers referred to baptism as the washing away of blindness. Tertullian opened his book (or tract) on baptism with the words ‘Happy is the sacrament of our water, in that, by washing away the sins of our early blindness, we are set free unto eternal life.’
Augustine comments on our text: “This blindman stands for the human race ....if the blindness is lack of faith, then the seeing (illumination) is faith .... He washes his eyes in that pool which is
interpreted ‘one who has been sent’; he was baptized in Christ.”
I would like to draw from the entire ninth chapter of John for our sermon today to show what God does in baptism.
FOR THE MAN BORN BLIND WHO IS MET BY CHRIST AND HIS LOVING ACTION: Instead of darkness or blindness, there is light and ability to see. There is much stress on the fact that the man in our text was born blind. It is mentioned —this fact of being blind at birth —no less than seven times.
Now when we consider a little child —that cuddly little bundle who is so winning —mostly because he is so small and helpless and dependent —we overlook this fact of his being blind. Unless he is enlightened, unless he receives the vision of God he will remain in darkness —He will not know who he is and what he came into the world for. But Christ comes and brings enlightenment starting with the washing of baptism. The one who has the Christ and his light through faith has the vision of God.
But how can such a little child be enlightened? He does not know, surely he does not know what is going on. He cannot have faith or comprehension. So some will argue.
The only way this little one is going to know of Christ (have the vision of God) is if the church loves him —and, loving him, teach him of the good news we have. The first and second —and third lesson —and all the way through the last lesson we teach should be this: God loves you so much that he has adopted you to be his own, and we, the church, love and care for you as a brother. You start teaching that lesson from the very first day. We know that an infant child may not understand much but he surely feeds on love —and he is nourished by the love that people can give to him. The parents can love him just because Christ has loved us and gave His life for us. The parents can be patient and forgive because Christ forgives us and is patient with us and keeps bringing us back.
The child is going to know of Christ as the church shows care for him. The child will know of Christ as people in the church live the life of Christ, live the way of the cross in the community. He will not know the fullness of the faith as a baby or as a little boy —or as a young man. BUT LOVE CANNOT FAIL. He will know someday. He will know the greatness of what has happened to him in the claim of God in baptism —the miracle of new life —someday I believe that. I am filled with high hope for him because of the Word of God.
Now in the ninth chapter of John we see a gradual dawning —an increase in knowledge for this man who received his sight from Jesus.
The Jews —it is the way of the world with, or against, the baptized —would not accept that Jesus had accomplished the restoring of sight to this blind man. They hounded the man who had been born blind. “How were your eyes opened?” The man Jesus did it. “Where is he?” I don’t know.
Later on they wanted to press him further on this matter so they asked, “What do you say about Jesus?” The former blind man said: He is a prophet.
Now in the part of the chapter that is the text for today the Pharisees (or Jews) are pressing him again and are trying to teach that Christ is not good or able to heal blindness. The man says plainly to them: I don’t know whether Jesus is a sinner or not, but once I was blind, now I can see. The man has great power.
Growing recognition of the fact and the power of Jesus as the one who gives light and goodness in life —This is the thing that happens to the child who is brought up in the baptismal covenant. He doesn’t know all the answers about Jesus, but he learns of his life and his power —because of what Christ —and the Body of Christ —can do and has done for him.
When the man who had been born blind answers the Pharisees that someone who does such great things —so good —has got to be from God —he gets clobbered by the Jews. The baptized, who live by their baptism, may share the same reaction from the world —but they hold fast to Christ who gives light and life.
Finally this man is confronted again by the Christ who tells him who he is and asks, “Do you believe?” He said, “Lord, I believe,” and he worshiped him.
The child who is baptized may not know the fullness of the truth of Christ, but as he experiences the power of God through the Church —through loving people as well as the Word and Sacraments —he will one day also fall down and worship Jesus as the Lord.
He will someday know how much he needed this act of baptism, this washing away of blindness of the natural man. He will someday know how necessary it was for God to come to him and to give forgiveness and light. He will know that he passed from blindness to the vision of God through Christ (Once I was blind —now I can see). He will know it because of the church, the caring, faithful, loving, teaching, acting church. And he will be glad for the judgment of God. The judgment of God upon this little one baptized here today is YES, you are my child.
That’s what I want to teach him to know the rest of the years I have to be his earthly father and his brother in the church. Will you help me to teach him that?
AMEN: YES, YES and it shall be so.
I want to teach my children...
Dan, you can deal me in - but only if we can get more than two people at the table! Meanwhile, here is my offering for February.
A month ago Josh brought over a few boxes of Joe Vold’s school notebooks and sermons. At first glance, Dad’s sermons were not well organized, maybe partly from being moved from parish to parish and from file cabinets to boxes, but probably this was more a reflection of the Joe Vold way of life. He always liked Abe Lincoln, who was said to have written the Gettysburg address on the back of an envelope, and throughout the Concordia years Dad seems to have taken this to heart. Everything is written on 5.5 x 8.5 half sheets, usually recycling the backs of bulletins, always handwritten in a single draft. Sometimes the 5-6 page sermons were stapled, but when they were loose they did not always stay together in the box.
I did not set out to dive into these sermons, but on first browse I was immediately intrigued. For all that went on in the late sixties, Dad did not go off the message of salvation too much, which was intriguing enough, but then there was also a sermon just after the Apollo 11 moon landing, and references to flower children, Mai Lai and Vietnam War, tensions in the middle east, race relations at home, a political convention in Chicago. And then, within only minutes of opening the second box, I came across the sermon that I am sharing with you all today, the message Dad delivered on the day of Joshua’s baptism. I’ve already given Josh a copy of this, and it is at Mom’s suggestion that I am posting this to the Symposia. So here you are, a Joe Vold sermon fully transcribed.
I have since spent a few weeks of evening hours doing my best to put the Concordia Scandia years in order. The sermons were sometimes dated but more often they had only cryptic clues of their season. I now know, for instance, that Oculi Sunday occurs before Exaudi Sunday. Yes, there was also a three year lectionary cycle of scriptural texts, except that Dad would not regularly write down the specific text reference. When one is not writing to the future and is speaking to people who have bulletin references in front of them, not much more needs to be said on the sermon page than a self-direction to “Read the Text.”
So, thanks to the lectionary calendars that were also in the boxes, I did. And thanks to all the stray pages, when paper styles and ink colors weren’t enough to reorder things, I read more of the sermons than I had first expected to.
After Concordia, Dad seems to have started dispensing of formalities, perhaps not needing to write out the sermons as much, or being less inclined to preserve the paperwork. There are still quite a few loose pages with Bejou references, though, and I look forward to getting to these. But so far, I am just through the end of 1969.
I will post the baptism sermon separately, but here are a couple of notes and quotes from various other sermons that jumped out at me.
At least twice, Dad brought up the hymn Joy to the World out of season, in October and February. “Isaac Watts was a forgiven man --a free man --a man who couldn't contain himself.”
Written six months before Josh was born: “I want to teach my children that they have a name and a goal. They have names, Jonathan and Daniel, but they have another name, and it is Christian. ...Christian, do you know your name?”
In a sermon on how all “ask-seek-knock” prayers are answered: “What is it to pray if it is not to pray in the Spirit, with the Spirit, for the Spirit? ...For when a man asks and seeks and knocks for this, he asks for everything there is.”
In a sermon titled “Your Life Is In God’s Hands”: “There will be a triumphant end ---a harvest that is abundant. I am thinking of my brother, Paul, who has been in surgery this week. ....The insignificance of the beginning and the triumph of the end!”
After Apollo 11: “To have the power to live in love for and in peace with those around you --with your neighbor --that is greater than walking on the moon.”
On a Sunday before Thanksgiving: “People don't give thanks because they have plenty... They give thanks when they clearly recognize that what they have is a gift.”
On “Refreshment Sunday”: “My father was a simple man. He loved the Gospel of John and he taught me to love it too.”
“When you hear the words, This is my body given for you, and you believe that God loves you so much he died for you, you will know what it was like for the poor man who found a treasure in his field....”
Lastly, I can still hear Dad speaking often of the “little ones” who are, as we all are, children of God. How neat is it to see that phrase first appear prominently in a sermon for Joshua’s first sign of the cross!
Saturday, February 11, 2012
A Queen of Spades
The following poem is based on an exercise I like to do with my creative writing elective, the newest installment unfolding as we speak. Deal out cards to see what you/your fellow players get. Enforce that three random pieces from those cards enter into your poem. In my case, I was dealt the Queen of Spaces (easy!), the Jack of Hearts and the 9 of diamonds, plus two other cards that I can, by rules of this game, discard. My deck of cards had an extra feature of Russian churches pictured within--they, too, could factor in the process of writing freely with random factors playing foil. This poem began as my students began, about 15 minutes after our hand was dealt. Admittedly, I've put some extra time in its present draft:
A queen of spades
doesn’t
need a knight—she
operates
by day looking all alone
for creatures in their ninth and
kills them
royally, without a
warning call.
You’d say that ninth
is past due
anyway:
why
should felines get
what
striving, writhing blastulas
remotely
cannot hope?
Why weep for
fortunes—kings
and queens—
if,
like Macbeths, they only dwell on
only
death, such heavens and such hell?
Why
play our hand in cat-
scratch all-indulgent
lands, and
all the while
the
Queen of Spades sits patiently,
seizing
nothing not her own. She isn’t
Jezebel
or any of her clones.
We go to churches,
temples,
mosques to
stand
against this queen. We do
not
win, we rather sing the futility
of
her cause and thus
We take her in.
She’s
lonely, after all,
and
probably she kills to have
some
friends. An educated guess, of course,
and
one we’ll have to fill.
Sunday, January 29, 2012
Poetry Spinning
Thanks Dan - I don’t know if you all heard the understory to that poem, and Dan I hope you don’t mind me sharing what is after all a good story. There are annual parties in Prague, and probably worldwide, to honor Bobby Burns, and at these parties the guests are asked to bring a poem to recite. I suppose that most will simply offer (or not so simply, having to memorize with all th’inflections) one of Burns’s own, but Dan wanted to be different and write his own poem, not to a louse or a mouse but to a grouse. He asked for my feedback, and I suggested, way too sheepishly and before seeing the final product, that he could still take the easy route and sing his version of Danny Boy, hoping no one would complain that it was an Irish song. Anyway, Good for ye, brother, for bein’ bold!
I am taking Dan’s encouragement to submit at least one monthly entry to the Symposia. I don’t have a poem this time around (and remember, fellow bloggers, poems are not the prerequisite anyway), but I do want to share how I have been influenced by poetry on several levels lately. First, I have to tell you all about a new phone/ipad app that the Poetry Foundation has put out. I can’t even begin to describe it, but it uses a “spin” button to put random poetry in front of you like nothing I’d ever imagined. Check it out at http://www.poetryfoundation.org/mobile/, and don’t be intimidated by the 35Mb download. It takes a little time and available memory, but it’s worth it. I might even actually finally subscribe to Poetry Magazine because of this.
Second, I am inspired by Kirsten, who was recently frustrated by her LA teacher’s admonition not to beat poems to death in trying to interpret them. I sympathized but ultimately took her teacher’s side, partly because I had just been reading and trying to memorize Mary Olver’s Hawk, a poem that, as it turns out, is specifically about that. I won’t repeat the poem here, being recently aware of potential SOPA violations, but the poet sees a hawk and starts to romanticize, then has to remind herself that this is “heaven’s fistful of death and destruction.” But the hawk looks so remarkable perched on a dead tree that she starts to think of “the tree, the cave, the white lily of the resurrection.” And that’s when the hawk proceeds to do what hawks do. But this, too, is not what Oliver wrote. You have to read the poem yourself and appreciate her struggles and reminders and disappointments, all of which are part of the poem. As Frost said, “Poetry is what gets lost in translation.”
Nonetheless, Kirsten’s teacher inspired me to try to interpret, yet not beat to death, one of Frost‘s own poems. I picked “Never Again Would Birds’ Song Be The Same,” whose full meaning had erstwhile escaped me. I think I have a grasp of it now, but only after looking at the particular meaning of each word —and yet the poem is still alive! Try just the first five lines (SOPA will not reach fair use) for yourselves, and ask yourselves, who is “he”? Where is “there”? How many voices? What is an “oversound”? And how much is considered before the poet even gets to Eve?
He would declare and could himself believe
That the birds there in all the garden round
From having heard the daylong voice of Eve
Had added to their own an oversound,
Her tone of meaning but without the words.
Third influence comes from Andrew, who has memorized a four line poem, which came to him while using Bartlett’s to compose an American Revolution essay. The teacher made him pick a different quote, as he was supposed to be taking the Tory’s side, but this time I think the teacher is full of beans. SOPA will not reach noncopyrighted poems (generally those before about 1923), so here it is, W.B. Yeats’s The Great Day:
Hurrah for revolution and cannon-shot!
A beggar upon horseback lashes a beggar on foot.
Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again!
The beggars have changed places but the lash goes on.
Well, that’s my spin for January. Here’s to hearing more!
Saturday, January 28, 2012
To a Grouse
On finding m’self i’ need of vice
presidential—providential?—advice
I learnt from thee, ye blastit louse
to see oursels as ithers see us;
an’ best-laid schemes gang aft
agley—
You, tim’rous
mousie, taught this much to me.
So turn our sights now to a grouse—
that quailin’ quib tha’ makes a house
i’ fieldside shrub an’ suffers fate;
Dick Cheney, meanwhile, shoots his mate
an’ spares our ruffled galliform.
Their faces red, a gath’ring storm
befalls the arrant knaves. “You louse!”
says one,
“Keep mum,” th’ ither, “—they’ll take
me for a souse!
“I had a nip o’ whiskey, see—
the aimin’ sure was not from me:
forsooth the Red Red Grouse—he lets
my vice become a virtue, an’ roundly gets
my versus, too. He keeps me sane
an’ questions not, nor gi’es away our
game.
We’re hunting, after all, oursels.”
So endeth Dick. Th’ ither never tells.
Then waddlin’ and warblin’, our
hero lives at least anither hour.
Ye might debate th’ just deserts
of birdshot i’ th’ face, which hurts
—yet doesn’t do th’ critter in.
He an’ ye must live to hunt agin.
O, grouse until yer wounds have healed,
O, leave all lessons i’ th’ field!
I’ll take sich notes fer Robbie Burns
An’ clink a glass each year he turns.
Imbibe that bird from Scotland, sir:
fer aimin’ luck and logic sure.
Happy 253rd, Robert Burns!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
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
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.
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.
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.
Monday, December 26, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, December 25, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
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.
Friday, December 23, 2011
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:
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!
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.
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)
Sunday, December 18, 2011
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.
"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.
Monday, December 12, 2011
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
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Saturday, December 10, 2011
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,
3
One added to one more is two,
a plain duality
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.
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....
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.
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
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):
And Advent Emma has turned seven. As Dad would say, "Ho!"
love,
Dan
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...').
And Advent Emma has turned seven. As Dad would say, "Ho!"
love,
Dan
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