Wing Language

 

Wing Language

           By Marilyn Jaeger

A serif is a wing, in fonts

Of characters in a text.

They carry the eye more easily

From one word to the next.

I first feared this was beating

A dead horse; let it rest.

Then recalled a book of my father’s

A Winged Horse Anthology – the best

In poetry to nineteen thirty

With Pegasus, winged horse, as theme.

Poetry, words, flying accomplishment

Wings, (serifs),leading on it does seem.

Trodding leafed Mendota paths

l Listened to fragments passing by

Elemental, words reach an ear, like

Angel wings whisp from the sky.

Our words have wings, written or spoke.

How they may lift, or sometimes, suppress.

Take delight in the presence of seraphim:

Words fly to us, God’s angels’, “Yes!”

 

Mlok skvrnitý

see him writhing ’gainst the grain,

a fire salamander—poison glands

mean nothing to the roadway, and

little to my dog, sampling the known

and new on nature’s morning walk.

try to force the fauna there to talk,

invested, after all—anyone may own

the pre-tread paths they follow, and

poems, paw-prints, salamander hands

spill clumsily to justify a local pain.

Castilleja

The paintbrush is ubiquitous:

in the canvas of Cézanne,

leaving little spaces for passers to complete;

in the arias of Bach,

lifting each contrapunct to heavenly heights;

in the lines of Szymborska,

lovingly commiserating the fate of Lot's Wife;

in the dances of our grandkids,

           lithely aware, like lemurs, of complicated things.

Our grandpa painted prairie fire:

                        for the campus of conviviality,

            mowing meadow paths to circumnavigate;

                        for the melodies of yore,

            moving in and out and into Sunday mass;

                        for the poetry of evermore,

            mostly rooted in the great recall of Tevya;

                        for the guy wires of grace,

            ministerially in place and Holy Ghost maintained.

Indians adumbrate this flower: colonists accede its Nehemiahic power.

Missing Autumn

Missing autumn:
Morning skies of paintbrush coral reef,
Norwegian red, gold and ombre crackly leaves,
Brisk air, bird song heights.

He lies hospital abed, barely seeing, not eating.
What if?
What if?
And I hear the response, the
Serif, the
Seraphim,
Who proclaim
God is in this world
This world of seeing and swallowing.
He's got this covered!

       by Marilyn Jaeger

Origins, beyond our own beyond...

 Loving that a) we still celebrate, b) we have archives to honor and re-delve, c) assignments at school are still pristine and not jaded from politicized 'no child left behind', 'common core', and other such 'backward' design (the origins of THAT concept, it should be said, is not so un-benign...) Here is Emma's 5th-grade poem about 'where she is from':

I am from a roll of film that rolls onto a new story.

I am from a small town with a forest hugging all around.

I am from a family of many different languages,

the heads of strawberry blonde.

I am from the sound of my dog pleading for a walk.

I am from a taste of zmrzlina, preferably stracciatella.

I am the smell of the past, a cottage home well before Božena

(who lived before our babička).

I am from a room where the morning sun tickles me awake.

I am from the books covered in dust that want to be read.

I am from a messy basement below my feet ,which dance

upon the living room rug.

I am from bedtime stories and lullabies from dad and mom

and hours of fun with Joe and Ben.

     from all of these, Amen.

From Marilyn Elstad Jaeger

Greg and I decided that this anonymous poem deserved to be in the Symposium.  It was found among our father's effects and there is no indication whether it was written in Plentywood or Denton, Montana or Hallock, Minnesota - a range of years from 1927 to 1952.  Obviously his most handsome years, whatever!   Except that it was written in a very small, precise script with black ink on 4-hole notebook paper, I reproduce it here verbatim:

                                     A Students Prayer

I do not remember assignments
   Of tedius measures and acts;
I only remember your gestures,
   Too complex for me are the facts.

          I don't comprehend explanations
          Too lengthy are they, oh so long
          I only remember your voice, dear,
          As it goldenly ambles along.

Your movements, your actions, your gestures,
And your sweet winning smile to the last:
Are the factors supreme and important,
That accounts for my liking this class.

         Perhaps, George, if you were a teacher
         All homely, all wrinkled and fat;
         I'd really learn more about History
         And wars, an' rail-roads, and that.  

Let me suggest something, Darling
(Will you pardon my being so blunt?)
I'm not just trying to be Funny
But I simply can't "sit up in front".

No, I can't sit where I do, Hon,
I'll quickly tell you "The Why",
Too many tongues, too many ears,
Too many thoughts and eyes.

          Oh, here's a much better reason
          I'd rather not show the pack--
          How much I think of Geo. Elstad -
          How soon can I move in the Back?

Really, I'll sure pay attention,
P.A.D. -- I'll get it with ease!
So listen just once, sweet"Patoodie"
Move my seat in the Back, woncha, please?   

celebrate!

This poem is dedicated to you, Dick, and all the angels that come in Grace, Word, and Faith. As I watched this speech in Congress, messages began to reveal your road to recovery. "Where two or three are gathered" or millions tuning in, many prayers were happening, and still will.

            on Pope Francis’ US speech

Gentle man, you ask as if the world depends on it

to pray for you, as if you need more God support,

and that the homeless child in Bethlehem could be

just as likely you, or one of us, begging unknown

happenstance. Lincoln dreamed a liberated voice

a century on could more than galvanize the mall;

Dorothy Day shone lives entrenched in shadows;

Merton, as a monk, shed solitude for dialogue and

mentored trained myopia to imagine a blind end.

When I was four, I linked my middle name to MLK,

not my grandpa or the priest of Wittenberg, whose

modus to ‘sin boldly’ met with operandi ‘believe

more bold.’ Dad relished my naïveté, reminded me

of lambs to come pointing to the Lamb of Calvary.

Nenikekamos!

First of all, thank you Dick and Greg and Mom and Dan for your poems.  They keep me going!

I am posting this poem on Josh’s birthday, but let me preface with a little explanation.  In the last four months I have been writing a journal, maybe a book, about my road to the marathon, and one of the chapters retells the story of Philippides, the first day-runner who ran to Athens from the battlefields of Marathon, the Fields of Fennel, to report on the soldiers’ success.  When he made it to his destination he burst into the room and declared, with his final breath, “Nenikekamos!” or “Joy, we have won!”  Josh, this is the spirit you have been teaching us for years.  Happy birthday, brother.  May you have many more miles to run!


Nenikekamos!:
from you to me

If every day is a gift
it doesn’t seem fair
Whenever there has to be
the days one must battle for
But let each breath that you breathe
fill you with the air
Of revelry and the spirit
of wanting to breathe it more.
Let every day you’re alive
be given to you
And every battle you fight
be an opportunity
To know the giver is good
who sees you through
To celebrate your life
and declare it victory.

Let every breath I breathe
lead me to believe
In heaven’s hold with the spirit
of wanting to breathe it deep.
Let every day I’m alive
be mine to receive
And every battle that I survive
be mine to keep.
Let me know the grace is good
that sets me free
To celebrate the gift
and declare the victory.

An Ode to Mother and Son
        by Dick Jaeger

(I, Marilyn, found this in the 2006 scrapbook and thought it appropriate for Symposium.  It was written in June, 2006, when we were visiting in Roztoky, Czech Republic.  Dick ends with this parenthetical comment: This was done without the guidance if an English major.)

Marilyn said "the tar paper off the side of the shed."
Dan wanted a place to play for the children with the hair of red.
Soon it was walls of mixed wood.
Tear it down we should.
Later it was only a frame;
To not finish would be a shame.
Now a deck Dan would make,
A place to read and eat for goodness sake.
Maybe add a storage shed and play fort
Now we'll have a backyard of a different sort.
What about the cellar for wine?
Katerina thinks that will be fine.
As we prepare to leave,and Dan begins the building fun
Will the project when school starts be done?
Next we come to Praha
We'll look at the classic and say, "Rah! Rah!"

Living Rivers, or Sonnet to IBT

Living Rivers, or Sonnet to IBT

                                           by Marilyn Jaeger

Rivers of Europe give joy to Dick and me.

On bikes we've followed seven to the sea.

In France, the Loire, it ends at Bay Biscay.

Then Danube - paths of concrete - most okay!

Called Elbe as we biked through Lutherland

At Prague it's Moldau.  Hail the Lamken band!

With barge-and-bike our hearts took on the Rhine

To end in Amsterdam in autumn time.

Paree!  The Seine - and pelting tons of rain;

Still, biking trails in woods does trump a train.

Same year Provence, she beckons to the Rhone:

Pont du Gard, Arles, and the Bridge of Avignon.

Clear sun, soft breeze, the Alps off to the left:

The Po to Adriatic Sea - the best!

a Back-to-School Blessing, for everyone

This week I was assigned to a 9th-grade 'Week Without Walls' trip to Harrachov, a ski-resort village not far from our own cottage in the Krkenose Mountains on the Polish border. The trip was fine--no injuries in the rope-climbing, archery, other-things-that-could-happen, and along the way I enjoyed a small conversation concerning the way Czechs label these present months (August=srpen, September=září October=říjen). Those who come to visit us can find out more;)

I thought of calling this post/poem "září", but instead retracted to our Irish heritage and the positive vibes of its most famous blessing. It has leanings to Frost and Eliot and Shakespeare, but deeper claim to the phenomenology that Brno-born philosopher Husserl esteemed, namely: our own (rather awesome) experience.

            A Czech Blessing                

September in our local language glows,

anticipates the rutting season, knows

the antics of a summer cut and dried,

scans the stack of wood an errant winter tried,

and hums ‘there will be time’ to reinstate.

For pessimists, no failure is in sight;

for boundless minds, the running air is right

and gateways of fresh learning stay ajar.

We do not cringe to catch a shooting star,

but rather chase the chance to calculate.

Admittedly, all autumns come too fast,

coupling the innocence and bombast

of adolescent dreams. September brings

a stage to strut and fret, a bell that rings

good tidings to the frames by which we learn.

In ways I’m entering Grade Forty-Three

—such graduations have eluded me—

and no voice mocks why chop that wood again?

Maybe fatherhood defends, smiling when

we let September glow, perchance to burn.

As September strides in...

We're missing you and wish our collective school year well, from Glenbard, Lake Forest, Champagne, Pecatonica, as well as here in Prague.

For Emma, Katerina and I, we're almost two weeks in and flush with assignments and such. For the boys, school starts Tuesday at Jan Kepler Gymnasium and Petrin Sever Art School. We had a great final weekend with them and Babicka in Krkenose--a wonderful cap to an unforgettable summer.

I may be heading to Manila for a hastily announced workshop, so that further busies things for me. Classes have begun well, so that helps justify the long trip.

Here's a poem in the glow of the number of runners (add Emma) we have in our family:

            August in Beijing

Thank God the Lightning Bolt believes in you,

apparent less in ritualistic pointing to the sky

and more in popping up and to that Segway guy

who deigned to mow him down without a clue.

Thank Confucius guy on Segway isn’t going to die

of scandal, maybe, or of shame that through

the rolling post-haste seconds subject to review

exposes multi-tasking hubris and ineptitude. I

saw Usain had taken off his spikes and thought

‘it must be liberating to shed those very tools

that got me here’, silencing the likely din of fools

who’d just assume his wins were steroid-bought.

Thank Ras Tafari reason’s not outpaced by rules

when any tiger freely strides for what it ought;

our kids dream infinitely fast, and now they’ve got

Jamaican heat to challenge any course that cools.

Coda

The room waited,

            bated breath,

      for the verdict to come

down. Jem was certain that we’d won it;

            Reverend Sykes was none-

                  too-trumpish in tying ‘we’ to ‘won’.

      Instead, he hearkened to experience

and maybe tacitly to God,

            maker of Tom Robinson and Helen,

                  Jean Louise, Mayella,

                        Dolphus Raymond,

            Cal and Atticus—every soul in sight;

and maybe even Bob, good gawd!,

                  and certainly, using Jem’s

                        assurance, the

                              ghost in every

                                    room:

      {palpable as heartbeats on a pillow—Boo}

Then the jury woke Judge Taylor

                        Scout,

                  and all who slumber through

            an end-of-summer read.

      Tom assumes the walking dead,

                        the truer Boo that folks could say

                  they somewhat knew,

even in the pages now unglued.

      I’m with Jem in hoping,

            Sykes for standing up for

                  something, even little Dill as

                              stowaway;

            I’m amply thrown apart each time

                  I entertain a

mockingbird {fluting in my heart}

It's raining, as I write

In my busy reading this week (code for: I can't find the article source), recent droughts in Russia may have been a contributing factor in the run-up of Arab Spring. Russia, more than EU countries, supplied grain to North Africa at reasonable prices, but when Russia's supply dwindled, they stopped exporting and sold grain to themselves; average Africans were depleted of free-market access to bread and dysfunctional government rations, greasing the democratic (since dashed) hopes of many in the region to self-actualize and rely less on the policies of hegemonic 'providers'.

Some personal associations are close at hand: most recently, 'Feed My Starving Children' was a definite highlight of our trip to America this summer; my Model United Nations trip to Cairo, October 2010 happened naively just a couple months before 'Arab Spring' activism; a controversial symposium at Concordia College, c. 1987, had Garret Harding argue 'Lifeboat Ethics' and the rationale to let the sinking world sink (as Western well-intended motives only add weight to the individual and collective rafts of self-survival).

Returning to Prague's Vaclav Havel airport is always a joy, especially in the glow of good trips: God has blessed us with many good homes. I was astonished, however, with the brown landscape. A long-term colleague here remarked that 'our Garden of Eden is no longer', inviting evangelical opportunities! In context, those assuredly happen!

Below is a poem I'm still scraping out. It's naturally about global warming/climate change but not in any way reacting to political discussions that frankly defy educational respect. Pope Francis will speak to Congress next month and invariably address our negligent stewardship to the neighbors we least associate with and the earth we exploit. In ways, he is ahead of his times, but lagging behind the times we could/should figure out for ourselves, with the balance of the Bible and common sense (devoid of self-interested political pragmatism). In the spirit of a symposium--including disparaging voices like Garret Harding--we have to do better than how we're doing, pleasant people that we are.

            Apollo, let us run

The sun is reason, qua-Apollo, as myths go,

and while I worship nothing of his brother,

I run a hellcat from this ball of fire and dive

(in not-so-feline fashion) into a sea of other:

a spangling envelope of simulated shade,

a lake or stream that flows my way, or, times

being what they are, into a pool man-made,

anything in sight to ward off what we know:

we’re burning up. Agent Orange is too select

a nightmare to assign as déjà vu, yet now we

lie exposed—the lab betrays our intellect,

as those who’ve been at either business-end

of hellfire can attest: what is heard or seen

must now be felt, faint hopes to comprehend.

Of all phenomena (here let definition grow:

Husserl and others render what exists, what

comes as an event, what we are in that mix)

I love a gentle sun-shower: rain at root, if

not exempt from quick evaporating force. One

falls against the other’s lift and full predicts

our lean relief, yet still will make Apollo run.

the love of summer

You know me well enough to project love for autumn (Pushkin, cross-country, All-Saints' Day, school stretching out of its cocoon). Summer gives reunions, resplendent waters to swim and canoe, heat and due relief, sing-alongs and chances to feed my starving children. This was a summer to love and appreciate how our children are growing up in grace. I'm grateful beyond recount. Below is a quick sonnet--as ever, any revision suggestions or (better yet) matching efforts would be welcome.

Teleology

Young Rockers, try to begin ‘you better

you better, you bet’ or glimmer through ‘hope-

lessly in love with you’, primally scream

The Immigrant Song or groove with a pict

‘so this aint the end, I saw you again

today—I had to turn my heart away.’

Reset your waking dreams with ad-hoc drive

and launch a wily search for mother lode;

it’s out there in the instinct you behold,

and if you’re Yorke or Schulz or Waits (any

TDH), that’s icing on the sponge cake.

Worry not about mistakes, the ends do

justify the Jack White chords you mean to

play. Because you’re young, be dolphins all day.