Bless the Wind

As a bit of a poetic experiment, I'm posting this while Jon, Kirsten and Andrew are in the air (perhaps at Heathrow, transferring). In this beautiful Christmas week we talked a bit about our writing processes, moleskin and digital and memory-based, and when to wait a while (as I did with my sonnet on Duncan) and when to let fly an idea, symposium-worthy or otherwise.

Walking Bronko this afternoon to the prayer bench, which looks on Levy Hradec across the westernmost tributary (Czech 'rostok') of our town, I enjoyed the chilly breeze--still unseasonably warm, but wintry and welcome all the same. Humming a line from Godspell--'O bless the Lord, my soul'--and thinking about that fluid verb 'to bless', I charted out the ways the winds bless us and, without a day's delay, wanted to post as such:

Bless the wind

that buoys up the plane

and shoulders into

landings, safe

and sound

again.

Bless the wind

that always we inspire

and sometimes use

to babble out

our inner

gyre.

Bless the wind

that knows not where

it blows, on whom

and what may

follow or

flare.

Bless the wind

that guides the ravens

here, to which we

can translate

their caws

amens.

Bless the wind

that taps Elijah’s cave

and tells us it’s all

right: futures

we must

brave.

Ekphrasis

Just home from Milan and my first 'category 3' workshop with the topic "teaching poetry for enjoyment and assessment"; while there I happened upon an organ concert featuring relatively obscure Bach cantatas and fugues in a basilica down the road from the Duomo, which is magnificent. We were able to use the final session of the second day to go downtown and into a museum exhibiting Alphonse Mucha, a main developer of Czech art nouveau. Our goal on Day 3 was to take in the visual art and turn ideas and impressions into poetry--a process called 'ekphrasis' (demonstrated well in Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn" and also in prose works, like Dostoevsky's Prince Myshkin recoiling over Holbein's "Dead Christ Entombed").

Intuitively, I could have based my own poem on Mucha, having seen his work all around Prague. Instead, I cast my mind ahead to a biennial teaching of The Tempest, my fourth favorite Shakespeare play: it's not set in Milan but rather framed by it, as I hope my own ekphrasis relays. I'd welcome any better title than "Renaissance bridge"...

Nativity scenes are big in Italy and big enough in countries north. While 'ekphrasis' is a term all too new to me, Joseph Mohr has demonstrated it on the sly, no matter who has painted in their walk of faith the Savior "born to us this day." Let us continue to animate this story!

at the workplace

Just off the press, a promotional video of our school. The Gwendolyn Brooks poem "We Real Cool" that has been on the Blanchardville fridge leads off by the coincidence that we were studying that poem when the film crew came in. The poem is wonderfully complex, and I'm blessed to have heard it live at Maine South circa 1982:

We Real Cool
The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel.

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

Perhaps not the most uplifting thing that's come out of my classroom, but I'm pleased my student Maria rolled with it!

spotting, in God's grace

Advent is here, 2015.
What a year this has been!
What a new year will unfold, miracle upon need for miracle, prayers upon need for prayers, Matthew 25 and all scriptures born to us anew.

I've just posted a new 'throw-away' poem about basketball on Lost Menagerie, somewhat out of obvious interest in that sport, but, if you scroll the next poem down, a struggle I'm having with a long-time friend in Prague who talks hoops as well as anyone (cousin of Del Negro, after all!) and whose struggle is more than I can abbreviate to a coherent, out-of-context prayer request. But that's what prayers are all about! Romans 8 is all about this, spotting what we ourselves cannot articulate.

We missed you all on Thanksgiving (rather workmanlike here;) and look forward to Christmas with Jon, Andrew, KC and friend. We'll hope to see hockey, as basketball in Bohemia is lousy;) but will tune into the true ministry that is Steph Curry, evangelist as much as everything else he does--we are blessed amidst a world that needs our blessings, our refuge, the risks of stepping out of bounds.

We're in God's game plan, after all.

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.