November 17

We had our third holiday of Autumn this week, variously called 'International Youth Day', 'Struggle for Freedom and Democracy Day', 'Independence from Communism' (the extended falling of the Berlin Wall). It is convenient that our holidays follow chronology:
      Sept 28: St Vaclav Day (from 935 AD)
      Oct 28: First Republic (from 1919)
      Nov 17: as described above (from 1939 and 1989)

The poem below is not a commemoration--Jon's gift of Poetry magazine had a writer warm about too many poems in that ilk;)--but a reflection on a late morning walk when rifle shots shattered the serenity. Kiev was on my mind, a venue that has reaped two cross-country championships over the years, a city one parent deemed to dangerous to send her child; the 'less dangerous' places of the world was also on my mind, as well as the thrown-together poem I posted that day. Then, suddenly, our local and elusive wild boar gave the day and 'Day' and season a different consideration.

            November 17

Paint with any given color

than fire-engine red,

fill a playground flush with voices

belying kids now dead,

window visits with each other

(comme ci comme ça they end),

overrun the countless choices

these seasons cannot mend.

Blasts across the river echo

into squeals of wild boar,

a month shy of the solstice, days

were darkening before,

and now they’ll never see the glow

of sunrise in the spring,

rains for which an excavator prays

and joys new squealers bring.

Sniff to empathize the dog’s walk

and size up where you stand,

mere mammals on a mothership

floating through the quicksand,

looking for occasions to talk

with creatures bound and free,

I hear the hunters’ shots and grip

the collar pressed beside me.

annus miribilus

I remember starkly Queen Elizabeth delivering a speech in 1992--the year before I'd join her landmass, more or less--and the 'annus horribilis' she declared, incognizant of Paris paparazzi taking all her perceived messiness to another level. It must be hard to be a queen not-in-charge of anything.

Our plebeian family could declare 2015 one way or another. I'm pleased Mom has channeled the Seraphim--the guardian angels that affirm, "where two or three are gathered in my name," and likely hang around for isolated souls who trust in God. We've had our needs for hospitals in 2015; we've also witnessed miracles, on the levels of Lazarus and oil lamps.

From our side, the year has provided for Katerina's better back, Josef's band performing to 400, Ben enjoying his art school, Emma grooving generally, me returning to Kiev for a cross-country championship, Bronko being a dog's dog, perfectly. We've inexplicably lost almost all our other pets, maybe as a blessing in disguise.

Paris is in our prayers, as well as Ankara, Beirut and countless other sites. Annus horribilis applies in this regard, all the more eschewing whatever Her Highness griped about in 1992. And so my segue, on petulant perspectives...

We were presented with a student perspective of what is 'relevant' in modern education. Try not to gag: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8xe6nLVXEC0

Poetry cannot be too easy. Including my current losing streak (now on three):

lowest common denominator

Raging on the internet is a kid

who’s trying to rhyme:

“I was never taught how to vote,

they devoted that time

to defining isotopes.” Indicted,

his teachers hang their heads

or fade away in ‘relevance’.

Enraged a different way, a kid

from Belgium blows up

Paris, flaunting fingerprints like

a robber mocking cops:

catch me if you can!... Excited,

we take that bait and parlay

fitful prayers of petulance.

Self-interest and what defines

the rest of us is forcing

lcd: calculations less inclined to

set our minds coursing

beyond the blind, the sighted,

the guides already codified,

the watchdogs at a dance.

To study that beyond! Bodkins

aren’t required to make

conditions of quietus, whatever

kind of dreams at stake;

we wake and walk benighted,

rushing to a source of light,

buying into circumstance.

Teach, we’ve got to get this right!

Time To Brag

There is, I suppose a time to brag and a time to refrain from bragging. I think the completion of my first marathon qualifies for bragging, but just in case, I am drawn to the sage advice of the Preacher in Ecclesiastes who considers that there is a time for all things under heaven (3:1).

Three verses in particular seem fitting.  In no particular order:  

By Ecclesiastes 3:22, there is nothing better for a person than to enjoy their work, for that is their lot in life.  Amen!  so then...

By verse 13, we are also called to find satisfaction in all our toil, for that is our gift from God. 

And by verse 4 we are told that there is indeed a time to laugh and a time to dance, and I'm inclined not to dance and laugh alone.

This, the journey as much as the run. was work, and it was ultimately satisfying. And I think, even before  the soreness goes away, it is worth the laugh and dance. Or, in this case, the 26.2 oval on my car!

Thank you all for indulging me in my nervousness and my eagerness over the last six months, and for encouraging me along the way at various finish lines during my growing obsession.  I wasn't in the neighborhood for most of you today, but Paul and Nina and Mom, it was great to see you there today. Dick, it was just as fun to see you before and after the race.  You have encouraged me as much as anyone, and now we look forward to seeing you at the farm on Thanksgiving: an even better time and purpose to laugh and dance!

Not to brag, but to invite, my next big race is on June 18th in Duluth, the Grandma's Marathon.  It will be a good opportunity to go visit Greg and Lola, if anyone wants to make the drive with me. And another invite of a smaller sort, if anyone is up for it: join me in Lake Forest on the Saturday after Thanksgiving for the COOL 5K/10K Run.  This will be my fourth year at this event!  COOL is Christian Outreach of Lutherans, which provides a local food pantry and temporary housing for homeless moms with children.    

Anyway, my time was 4:20 today. Not as good as I had once hoped, but I am happy. And there is room for improvement, as long as my legs hold out.

God is good, for giving us time for all things!

- Jon

empiricism

“Research shows” because

I’m sounding smart today

“that gratification that

is instant is—that which

ipso facto is—” pretend to

pause “how the world goes.

And so it goes. The tortoise

thinks it’s won” look at

everyone “some lonely

trek upon another’s stage.

You’d be amazed” and here

gesticulate “…the virtues of

the hare.” there, a thesis

worth the wait, the rest

I’ve heard is silence, or

some such stuff that did

not resonate “The rest the

creature craves is by rights

the nobler race,” research

surely shows “and those

inclined” disposed? “to

looking back at plodding

methodology,” well said

“well, wink away that worry

—today! now! in the chair

you best” comfit/comfort

just google it “inherit.

Let’s demonstrate: lots

of algebra or a longed-for

like” one thumb up “on in-

stagram…” snapchat, what

you will “you make the

choice that makes you

happy—stoked—” brows

up “and begs you back to

satisfy again. Amen?” so then

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.