Retrospect

There will be great poetry in this
     after a while,
However long it takes to figure out
What happened, but not long enough to let
It be forgotten.  Maybe time will heal
Our wounds before we find the words to say
But the words will be there, waiting
     to be spoken,
Hidden behind whatever scars remain,
Forming themselves within our shaken souls
Like a slow forgiveness.


from Calendrums

The End Of A Year

A Reflection of 2013

It was a year of days,
of memories encapsuled
by frames of wake and fall asleep,
of moments made precious
by being relived,
of stories waiting to be told.

It was a year of big stories
and everyday stories:
the day of the bear
and the day of the fish,
days of paddling
on rivers and lakes,
through easy currents
and rolling waves,

days of driving
into Appalachia,
up to the Iron Range,
across Indiana
and all over Chicago,
and trips up to the folk's farm,

days of running
through the heat and
in the cold,
on the treadmill
and on marked courses,
at my own pace
and alongside others,

days of beer and Scrabble,
days of PADS, Habitat
and Feed My Starving Children,
days of work and working together,
days of rest and play

days I stood up to speak
and days I stood by to watch and listen,
days of tears
and days of hugging
and a few of loneliness,

teh day I fixed a fence gate,
the days I finished a floor,
days of cooking,
days of restaurants,
days of poetry
and days of Ravinia,

a day or two for my daughter,
a day or two from my son,
days of airports and days of hotels,
days of family in North Dakota,
in Wisconsin, Minnesota
and Illinois.

days caught up in news cycles,
days of getting news of our own,
days of great. distant tragedies
and days of a great, fallen hero,
days of meditation,
peace and quiet,

a day of reading with the
world spinning around me,
the days of Blackhawk victories
and days of baseball games,
a day at PNC Park,
another at Busch Stadium,

days of council meetings
and fencing tournaments
and talent shows,
homework days, deadline days,
overtime days
and blessed days off,

days of living together
and days of needing to be apart,
days of looking into the future,
days appreciating the present
and days, like today,
looking back,

days, not often enough,
I took time to pray,
days, every day in its own way,
I celebrated,

a life of days
with time marked
by anniversaries
and calendar moments,
and now is the time
to mark this year of days

and to give thanks
for each new wake and fall asleep.


not previously published

The Point of Life

1 looks to the stars
turns to the east
leans on the powers
of reason & truth.
1 pays for the view
waits for the feast
contemplates beauty
& holds on to youth.
1 bows to the throne
flees from the beast
stands off alone
while one sets up 
a booth.
1 searches within
struggles for peace
sees time begin
to grow long 
in the tooth.
1 takes up the cross
suffers the sentence
‘s less where he is now
than where he 
is going.
1 ‘s done what he’s done
comes to his senses
turns to the one
hanging next to him,
knowing
1 speaks of a presence
lives for today
lifts up the other
and shows him 
the way.


from Stillwater Symposia

My Doxology

Yes, I will praise God from whom all blessings flow 
and by whose strength my every song is sung.  

And yes, I think there’s nothing wrong 
with letting my convictions show 
or testifying to the things I know.  

And yes, I’ll sing, and though I’ve learned 
the lesson long ago that God is (always) singing 
greater songs than I will ever sing, 

I will no less keep singing 
to the music God has given me 
and by the truest notes I know,

and with a voice as providence bestows
I’ll raise my earthly spirit up to heaven
as loudly as the wind allows, 

And yes, I will praise God from whom all blessings flow!


from Turning the Metaphor

Sabbath

December is the Sabbath of the year,
Or should be so: We need a month of rest
After eleven months of business,
Before the year ahead of us no less
And more: we need this restful moment here
To bless the coming year.

I wonder if it wasn’t by design,
If God’s own resting was a matter more
Of looking forward, getting ready for
The days to come, the challenges in store
And less of looking backwards and behind,
No matter how divine.

Thus, when in God’s own image we look back
We ought to simply say how good it was
And turn toward tomorrow —with a pause,
Of course, for all it’s worth and what it does:
This holi-month allows us to reflect,
Compels us to project.

As every end ignites a new beginning,
As every prayer concerns continuation,
As silent nights turn into celebration,
As cheers turn into wishes, as ovations
Build to the encore, as the show is ending
The Sabbath world keeps spinning.


from Calendrums

Silent Night (2010)

This is my wreath: my evergreen circle
      hung on a nail on my front door, closed
      to the world cold, to winds uncertain;
      this is my home, my dependable storm.
     Behind this door I live life daily,
      ready to open when friends stop by
      but happy to stay this side of winter
      showing my wreath to the world outside.

This is my tree: my forest aroma
      cut from its roots, brought in from the cold
      to where it’s warm and dry, my summer
      green as the grass beneath the snow.
     This is tradition marked with tinsel,
      silver and gold reflecting fire.
      I like my tree real, my ice artificial,
      the smell of pine with a touch of stars.

These are my lights: blinking and flashing
      my Christmas spirit without a sound
      but every note is filled with passion,
      every word completes my song
     and takes the message out of storage.
      After long nights of singing blind
      on lonely streets I am determined
      to light these candles for the world outside.

This is my card: my Christmas greeting
      telling you how I bid you well
      and think of you in this wishful season
      of shepherd’s wake and wisdom’s call,
     of peace on earth, forever hoping
      in God come down on a silent night.
      I’ve been a stranger.  You barely know me,
      but this is my chance to make things right.

from Calendrums

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.

from Stillwater Symposia

A Christmas Poem (2012)

O boatswain, let this be a lesson
For your children lived and learned
Of hope stirred out of cynicism,
Grace unsought and love unearned,
That even as the inquisition
Mocks the shepherd just returned
Or marks the missionary vision
With a basic truth discerned
Before the mission ever started,
Far beyond the pasture’s hold,
So too the message angels uttered
In a field to shepherds told,
And so the glory first imparted
In a trough, uncounted, cold
And barely noticed, always mattered
More than Christmas green and gold.

No doubt we need to feel the fire,
Watch the stars and keep the day
As holy as the world desires,
Festive, bold and on display,
And certainly we should aspire
To give gifts as the wise men gave
And to receive from one another
More than the receipts we save,
But let there be a better lesson
After all the songs have died
To outlast every brief vacation,
Make each day we set aside
Endure, let every contradiction
Stir what’s beating deep inside
And let the challenge of the mission
Move us, ne'er to be denied.

from Stillwater Symposia

Seven Swans - for the Christmas Stocking, 2013

The Swan, by Rainer Maria Rilke ( a new translation) This toil through life as yet undone is hard; we move with ropes around us like the artless waddle of the swan and then death and the letting go of a life of walking on the ground is the swan nervously slipping in to a water that receives him gently, happily taking what has passed from under him, wave by wave, while the swan, with perfect peace and calm, becomes forthright and regal upon the water, rested and relaxed.

(not previously published)

Festivus, Revisited (2014)

Four days past the winter solstice, when
the sunlight hours are at their shortest and
the drive home's darker than it's ever been,
it's good to know that Christ is born, again,

and if that's more than you can comprehend,
imagine those first Christmas moments when
the angels broke the shepherds' darkness and
declared the day and what it meant to them.

God meets us in our fields of fear and sin
and brings joy to the world we're living in
and gives us peace, such peace that even when
the nights seem endless we're assured again

of good news worth repeating now and then:
to us, this day, the son is born, again.


from Stillwater Symposia

Reflective Study of Wallace Stevens' Man and Bottle

The mind is the great poem of winter, the man
    The heart is the rose and ice of spring, the child
Who, to find what will suffice,
    Who, accepting everything,
Destroys romantic tenements
    Creates the real poetry
Of rose and ice     
    Of life

In the land of war.  More than the man, it is
    In a state of grace.  More than a child, it is
A man with the fury of the race of men,
    A child full of the innocence of youth,
A light at the centre of many lights
    A rising sun, a breaking light,
A man at the centre of men.
    A child at the edge of truth.

It has to content the reason concerning war,
    It never questions the cause or concern of grace,
It has to persuade that war is a part of itself,
    It never argues that grace is out of place, it is
A manner of thinking, a mode
    A matter of feeling, the core
Of destroying, as the mind destroys,
    Of creating, so the heart creates

An aversion, as the world is averted
    A convergence, as the dawn converges
From an old delusion, an old affair with the sun,
    To a new awareness, a new affair with the sun,
An impossible aberration with the moon,
    The inevitable deviation from the moon,
A grossness of peace.      
    The end of night.

It is not the snow that is the quill, the page.
    It is not the rose that is the dawn, the spring.
The poem lashes more fiercely than the wind,
    The ice breaks, the winter melts away
As the mind, to find what will suffice, destroys
    As the heart, accepting everything, creates
Romantic tenements of rose and ice.
    The real poetry of life.

from Calendrums

Mots du Jour

This is my way of calling it a day,
Of sorting through immediate memories
To find what's worth repeating, and by these,
My random stops and starts along the way,
Remembering the journey.  Every day
Its own adventure, every moment seized
A glimpse of further possibilities,
Each orbit spinning something more to say.
So here's my say, my call, my mots du jour,
My journal written of its own accord,
My record entered into history,
The story of my life, my private tour,
My positure, my confluence ---each word,
Like time itself, as it occurs to me.

Profile

Don’t be a cipher, someone said.
Show us the face that hides behind
The poems you have let us read,
Give us a glimpse beyond the mind
Of the poet who has edited
His life down into metered lines,
Whose given his blog a leveled screed
But nothing past the words he’s signed.

Here, then, you have my picture: See
The aging and the fattening
Of fifty years, the lazy eye
That looks like it is focusing
On things in the periphery;
See what’s in need of ironing,
The fashions that have passed me by,
The cry for different coloring,

And there is more, of course.  I could
Divulge my sordid history
Of marriage leading to divorce,
Of education forcing me
To compromises, of a good
Career besmirched with obloquy.
But there is always more, of course,
Than who I would pretend to be.

With marriage, I have progeny
With stories of their own to tell;
With education, I have learned
The fathoms of my earthly well
Of ignorance; and should you see
The merchandise I try to sell,
For every dollar fairly earned,
My reputation’s mostly held.

But turn away from all of this.
What should it matter what I wear
Or how I always seem to look
Or just how well I comb my hair,
If I’m a father with no wife,
More lawyer than you’d have me be
Or lead an unenlightened life?
For now, you have my poetry.


from Turning the Metaphor

Moleskin 6.2

Carter’s professed respect was towards what Niebuhr perceived as a theological duty in the realm of politics, to try to do justice in a sinful world —maybe, as it would turn out, more than a peanut farmer could handle, although Carter would maintain a dedication to this duty beyond his political presidency. But Niebuhr is also known, and perhaps better known, as the author of a bit of wisdom that may seem to fit less into politics, or rather shows the higher nobility of theology over our more human policies: it is the wisdom of a prayer, one that prays for wisdom itself, as well as courage, each in their proper place. First, though, the prayer is for serenity: “God grant me the serenity to accept...”  More grant than a twelve year old can possibly be expected to grasp. And yet, on the riverbanks of youth, without any knowledge of Niebuhr’s wisdom, the thoughts, the prayers were forming.

Sonnet of the Fire

The gift of spirit,
The dance within,
The forge that makes me
more than clay.
The wheel that turns,
The heat that burns,
The fire’s fingers
forming me.
The fragile flame,
The sparks of time,
The fickle flicker
of the glaze:
The soul for 30,000 days,
each longing for eternity.

Sonnet of the Water

The gift of quench, the grace of flow,
The stir of raindrops on the soil,
The tears we cry, the salt we show.
The way we wash away our toil.
A soak to soothe, a drip to feed,
The air that we’re conditioned to,
The life we’re given and all we need,
Our vehicle and avenue,
The force that cuts from source to sea,
Before we’re born, after we die,
The waves of time and destiny,
Our means to cleanse and purify,
The drink we drink, to all things new
   and from all that we should let go:
I fill my glass and lift it to
   the gift of quench, the grace of flow.

Sonnet of Earth and Essence

I am earth,
my God is essence
and in between

The wind blows,
the water flows,
the fire burns.

All that is made
my God creates;
I am created

With heart and lungs,
with sweat and tears,
with want and will,

And without these
my God is absent
and I am only earth.

Sonnet of the Wind

The gift of breathe:
The air supply made of green leaves,
The chemistry of oxygen
the lungs receive,
The circulatory cells they feed,
The appetite and hunger’s power
of needing more,
The muscles that refuse to sleep,
The will to keep
the moments of a given day,
The way we live in increments,
The breath we give back to the green,
The whole routine
Beyond belief or comprehension,
Uncontrolled, unspecified,
The spirit of the simplest soul:
The gift of breathe.

Sonnets of the Spirit

Sonnets of the Spirit
A Song, a Creed, a Toast and a Dance

Moleskin 6.1: Prayer

Prayer

In 1974 a football player took the place of Tricky Dick, and in 1975 a peanut farmer announced that he wanted the job.  Jimmy Carter had a brother, Billy, whose own inspirations didn’t get much farther than a beer can, but Jimmy, the governor of Georgia now, was more driven. The football player, meanwhile, seemed bumbling, and not just physically, as Saturday Night Live had fun pointing out, but also inspirationally: on the campaign trail his most prominent position seemed to be to get people to wear a button that said, almost unimaginatively, “WIN.” Whip Inflation Now, it meant, although it never really explained how. All of this was in the papers I was delivering and starting to read more in my twelfth and thirteenth years, but it would be much later that I gave more than a passing notice to one of Carter’s more interesting side comments on the campaign trail, a nod of great respect to a theologian, Reinhold Niebhur.

Thirteen Miles (or, Thirteen Ways of Listening to the Run)

A bird flies with 
  instinctive purpose, 
     but humans run with 
  determined will.

Rivers flow from beginning to end, 
  all at once.  
     Within every runner
  there is a river. 

The poem of the run 
  is one without words,
     won without words: 
  the run is the poem,

life’s rhythm exceeding 
  the sum of its beats:
     the drum of the run 
  becomes the rhyme

all at once:  it's the road
  speaking up to the feet, the heart 
     sending will to the legs, the soul
  circulating the blood,

all at once, the wind of the world 
  blowing into the lungs, 
     the breath keeping pace 
  (keeping pace, keeping pace)...

The race, says Qoheleth, 
  is not to the swift,
     but time and chance 
  are not what keep me going.

...it's the quiet salt rivers 
  that roll off the face,
     like lines of a poem 
  within a poem,

the descant chant
  of muscles in tune 
     with the length of the race
  and the time that it takes;

all at once, it’s the senses:
  the dry lips of thirst,
     the sight of the bend,
  the scent of the breeze,

the feel of the earth
  with the treadmills gone,
     the sound of the air
  without headphones on

and the mind memorizing 
  the song, but the song
     defies contemplation
  or singing along:

the song is the run,
  to be learned on the run,
     all will turning to purpose: 
  the run is a song.


from Stillwater Symposia

We Will Draw Near

An interpretation of Karl Jenkins' Adiemus

Brother, may the Lord be with you
Like a shepherd in the field
Giving you the meaning of Immanuel.
May that mean the whole world to you,
God's world ever given to you,
Blessing you no matter where you are.

Sister, may a world of peace be
With you everywhere you go,
Everywhere the meaning of Immanuel.
May it mean that God will hold you
Like a mother holds her child who
Grows up in the arms of loving care.

Refrain:
And may God's face shine upon you
With an everlasting smile,
Giving you the meaning of Immanuel.
May it mean that God is with you everywhere.
(We will draw near.)
May you know that God is with you everywhere.
(We will draw near.)
Immanuel! 
Immanuel!

(Repeat Refrain)

Child, may the grace of God be
Something you will come to know
Living in the meaning of Immanuel.
As you wander through the fold and
Grow beyond the mother's hold, may
You still know you are a child of God.

(Repeat Refrain)

May the hands of the shepherd bless you.

(We will draw near!)

May the arms of the mother keep you.

(We will draw near!)

May the face of God shine on you.

(We will draw near!)

May the grace of the Lord go with you.

(We will draw near!)

May the peace of the world be in you.

(We will draw near!)

May you know God is always with you.

Immanuel!

Immanuel!

from Turning the Metaphor

Introduction to We Will Draw Near

This is inspired, at least in part, by brother Josh's persistent challenge to us all to get out another "S2L2A&A" list: songs to listed to again and again.  I don;t have a full list together for this year yet, but I think I'd like to start it with a favorite song from Kirsten's Jubilate Choir days, music that I still like to turn to now and again, eight years later.  The song is Adiemus by Karl Jenkins, the lead part of a full album and the premise for a beautiful choral concert called Songs of Sanctuary.  What makes Jenkins work especially unique is that it's all done in a pseudo=Latin with no specific meaning.  Teh first lines, for instance, are:

Ari adiemus late
Ari adiemus da
Ari a enatus late adua.

It turns out the title can be roughly translated as "We will draw near" in Latin, but Jenkins claimed not to know this.  Anyway, it's musically rich, solemn, dramatic, full of crescendo and sanctuary but also, at least for me all these years, intriguing in how it seems to beg for more meaning.  So this year I finally decided to give the song my own words.  In the process, arbitrarily or not, I have turned to the well known "bless you keep you" benediction, enhanced with one  of my favorite words, Immanuel, a word worth repeating, again and again.  And yes, the descant remains: we will draw near.


from Stillwater Symposia

The Peace Mantra

T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land (TWL), lines 433-434 





433  See Brooks**: The mad prince may be “mad for a purpose.” See Shakespeare, Hamlet 2.2. 202-203: “Though this be madness, yet there is method in’t.” What first appears as gibberish (see Dadaism, note 418) on a closer look reveals a deeper design. 

434  Eliot: Shantih. Repeated as here, a formal ending to an Upanishad. 'The Peace which passeth understanding' is a feeble translation of the conduct of this word.

✭  This is THE PEACE MANTRA, uttered conclusively even as it is not fully understood. Several of the Upanishad passages have an “Om Shanti Shanti Shanti” ending, a basic mantra that loosely translates as “Let there be peace, peace, peace.” See, e.g., Upanishads, Taittiriya Upanishad 1.1 and 1.12. See also Brihadaranyaka Upanishad 1.3.28, which often includes the same “shanti” ending (although Hume’s 1921 translation regularly left it out: “From the unreal lead me to the real! From darkness lead me to light! From death lead me to immortality! [Let there be peace, peace, peace.]” This is also the third instance in the poem that Eliot employs a repetitive mantra, each time in relation to eastern allusions; see also burning burning burning (line 308) and da da da (note 400). Eliot’s translation of Shantih is taken fromPhillipians 4:7: “And the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, shall keep your hearts and minds through Christ Jesus.” Still the doubting Thomas, our poet confesses to a feeble understanding of that which all would-be believers seek. This, in time, will change for Eliot (see The Four Quartets, note 296), and indeed he would direct that his epitaph be etched with words from East Coker (see note 296): “In my beginning is my end. In my end is my beginning.”

Eventually.  But for now it is the poet’s words in this final note, as much as any others, that have intrigued my own understanding and encouraged these annotations.

from T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land, with annotations (and other explanations)

Peace

I clean my house
     the way I pay my debts
the way I find my peace:
     a little at
a time (a resting place
     in greener fields
now and then, forgiveness
     by the silent
waters).  So far,
     time's been good to me
but in the end
     I want to live to see
no more to clean, no more
     to pay, and PEACE,
such peace that passes
     understanding, peace
that supercedes
     my earthly needs
          and leaves
this tired world,
     this plodding pace
          behind.
I don't know if or when
     I'll ever find
that better place, but
     let me still
          believe
that if I serve my time
     and look for peace
a little at a time
     I'll be released.


from Stillwater Symposia

Table Grace

Around the table, tradition goes,
each person has to say one thing
they’re thankful for, a word, a phrase.

We take our turns with the usual string
of gratitudes and platitudes:
for food and family, most of all,

but also health and love and God.
We try to be original
but every year’s about the same,

just as it should be I suppose,
a fitting capsule for this time,
the simple words of hungry souls.


from Calendrums

Moleskin 5.10

There are times when I look at my eighteen year old daughter or my fifteen year old son that I wish I could jump ahead a few years just to see how everything turns out. I worry for them sometimes, but more often it is fatherly pride that sparks this wish. I am eager to see their lives unfold, and my wishes become even more hopeful as I think further ahead, to years I become increasingly less likely to see. This is not the best way to tell a story, though. I am eager now to tell you what would happen when I was fourteen, and twenty three, and twenty six ----not to mention those years ahead after my son and daughter were born. Of course I did not know any of these things in the summer and fall of twelve, though, and as I sat and contemplated the stream before me my thoughts were filled more with worry than eagerness, more worry than a wandersome boy should be troubled with, less eagerness than one would expect along the edge of stability. But that’s where I was.

Meleagris Gallopavo

   

When country fiddlers held a convention in Danville, 
the big money went to a barn dance artist who played 
Turkey in the Straw, with variations... 

                                                — Carl Sandburg


Consensus is born of determination...


Some say the first Americans had named it for its cluck Or that Chris called it “tuka” for a peacock he mistook (By Chris I mean Columbus; Tuka’s Tamil for peacock, And Tamil is the language of Ceylon), but by the book The Brits declared it first and for all time the bird from Turkey, While Science called it meleagris, out of Malagasy (Relating it to Guinea fowls, with Latin terms so classy They get excused for making things perpetually murky). Each stop along the trade route added names to the imposter: The Palestinians dubbed the bird an Ethiopian Rooster, The Dutch decreed it kalkoen, a Malibarian coaster (From Calicut of Malibar in India, southwester). The commonest of turkey tags, for Turks and many others, Is Indian Chicken, for the land Columbus misdiscovered: Thus hindi, dindon, indyk, indjuk, hindishga, all brothers Of the nascent New World Order of the Turkey. Meanwhile, over In India, some Indians have christened it “peru”, Deferring to the name their Portugallan traders knew. But Peru never knew the bird until the Spanish shipped it; They called it gallopavo, for the peacock Chris descripted (By Chris I mean Columbus; pavo’s peacock; gallo’s chicken; And Portugallans are the chicken-trading Portuguese). And so this story goes: the plot unwinds, the titles thicken, But dinner’s on the table; you can call it what you please. There is no grand denouement in the course of human nature And from the very start the turkey’s oldest nomenclature, Presented by the Aztecs in their native Nahuatl, Has been a word the world could never say: Xuehxolotl.


from Thirty Birds