Original Face

Equal time

    I have been asked to give equal time to the no-happy father's day sentiment out in the blogosphere.  Given that our Democrat controlled Congress is soon to mandate equal time (how that squares with freedom of speech and the press I have never understood), I figured, well, why not.  So here it is.
    I have posted a poem of Philip Larkin's previously.  He is a very complex and interesting figure in modern British poetry.  An atheist with a sense of the divine, he has the knack of penetrating below the surface of things and showing the inner aspects of life.  He also can be richly ironic and pungent.  Here is a poem that knocks parents, parenting and parenthood.

This Be the Verse

They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
  They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
  And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn
  By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
  And half at one another's throats.

Man hands on misery to man.
  It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
  And don't have any kids yourself.

Fathers and sons

    Tomorrow is Father's Day.  It was, literally, an afterthought created almost 40 years after Mothers' Day.  More or less, it will be acknowledged with a metaphorical tip of the cap to the Ol Man.  Perhaps a card, or a phone call.  Maybe even a special breakfast.  But the restaurants will not have waiting lists for luncheon reservations, the flower shops (or wine stores, for that matter) will barely see any blip in their sales numbers due to the day.
    Yet, let's celebrate fathers.  In the era where they are no longer a necessity in reproduction, but a luxury for family life, their influence over their children continues throughout the kids' lives, regardless of their presence.  So, Dad, here's to you.
    A wonderful, if little read, modern American poet, Louis Simpson's poem about a father and a son resonates with me.  Perhaps with you as well.

Working Late

A light is on in my father's study.
"Still up?" he says, and we are silent,
looking at the harbor lights,
listening to the surf
and the creak of coconut boughs.

He is working late on cases.
No impassioned speech! He argues from evidence,
actually pacing out and measuring,
while the fans revolving on the ceiling
winnow the true from the false.

Once he passed a brass curtain rod
through a head made out of plaster
and showed the jury the angle of fire--
where the murderer must have stood.
For years, all through my childhood,
if I opened a closet . . . bang!
There would be the dead man's head
with a black hole in the forehead.

All the arguing in the world
will not stay the moon.
She has come all the way from Russia
to gaze for a while in a mango tree
and light the wall of a veranda,
before resuming her interrupted journey
beyond the harbor and the lighthouse
at Port Royal, turning away
from land to the open sea.

Yet, nothing in nature changes, from that day to this,
she is still the mother of us all.
I can see the drifting offshore lights,
black posts where the pelicans brood.

And the light that used to shine
at night in my father's study
now shines as late in mine.

Memento mori

    Tomorrow is Memorial Day.  As it is recited to us on Ash Wednesday: "Remember, thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return."  The dilemma of death is not if but when and how.  For those who have given their lives to preserve our liberties the answers are too soon and too brutally.
    Robert Lowell wrote an elegy "For the Union Dead" which is appropriate this weekend.  It talks of those soldiers, the all black volunteer 54th Massachusetts Infantry lead by Robert Gould Shaw, who led an assault on Fort Wagner in South Carolina.  Almost all perished.

"Relinquunt Omnia Servare Rem Publicam." 

The old South Boston Aquarium stands
in a Sahara of snow now.  Its broken windows are boarded.
The bronze weathervane cod has lost half its scales.
The airy tanks are dry.

Once my nose crawled like a snail on the glass;
my hand tingled
to burst the bubbles
drifting from the noses of the cowed, compliant fish.

My hand draws back.  I often sigh still
for the dark downward and vegetating kingdom
of the fish and reptile.  One morning last March,
I pressed against the new barbed and galvanized

fence on the Boston Common.  Behind their cage,
yellow dinosaur steamshovels were grunting
as they cropped up tons of mush and grass
to gouge their underworld garage.

Parking spaces luxuriate like civic
sandpiles in the heart of Boston.
A girdle of orange, Puritan-pumpkin colored girders
braces the tingling Statehouse, 

shaking over the excavations, as it faces Colonel Shaw
and his bell-cheeked Negro infantry
on St. Gaudens' shaking Civil War relief,
propped by a plank splint against the garage's earthquake.

Two months after marching through Boston,
half the regiment was dead;
at the dedication,
William James could almost hear the bronze Negroes breathe.

Their monument sticks like a fishbone
in the city's throat.
Its Colonel is as lean
as a compass-needle.

He has an angry wrenlike vigilance,
a greyhound's gently tautness;
he seems to wince at pleasure,
and suffocate for privacy.

He is out of bounds now.  He rejoices in man's lovely,
peculiar power to choose life and die--
when he leads his black soldiers to death,
he cannot bend his back.

On a thousand small town New England greens,
the old white churches hold their air
of sparse, sincere rebellion; frayed flags
quilt the graveyards of the Grand Army of the Republic. 

The stone statues of the abstract Union Soldier
grow slimmer and younger each year--
wasp-waisted, they doze over muskets
and muse through their sideburns . . .

Shaw's father wanted no monument
except the ditch,
where his son's body was thrown
and lost with his "niggers."

The ditch is nearer.
There are no statues for the last war here;
on Boylston Street, a commercial photograph
shows Hiroshima boiling

over a Mosler Safe, the "Rock of Ages"
that survived the blast.  Space is nearer.
When I crouch to my television set,
the drained faces of Negro school-children rise like balloons.

Colonel Shaw
is riding on his bubble,
he waits
for the blessèd break.

The Aquarium is gone.  Everywhere,
giant finned cars nose forward like fish;
a savage servility
slides by on grease.

O Death

    When I was a young boy, one of the first "real" books which I read pierced my soul.  It takes a nanosecond for me to recall reading John Gunther's "Death Be Not Proud" recounting the last months of his teenage son as he lost his battle with brain cancer.  The profound sadness which pervaded me that day comes back to me quite easily.  It showed me, and continues to show me, the particularity and universality of mourning. 
    Some time later I came to wonder how Gunther came upon that powerful title.  It comes from a sonnet of John Donne.  Surprisingly, Donne's death does not win, in the end.  Rather at the end of time, death is the vanquished foe.
    As Memorial Day approaches, it is good to remember Donne's words.

DEATH be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not so,
For, those, whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,	5
Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,
Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,	10
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,
And better then thy stroake; why swell'st thou then;
One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

Jim

    This is a wonderful and wicked poem in a way that that children's writers such as Raoul Dahl and, in this case, Hilaire Belloc, can pull off.  Their verse captures the terror of childhood that every child knows instinctively...dangers around every corner, capricious adults who have complete control over one's day and destiny, fears that can pop out in day and night dreams. 

    I have been fond of this poem since my childhood.  Perhaps it is that its title is my nickname, perhaps I saw (see ?) in it a deeper truth than is found in most nursery verse.   

There was a Boy whose name was Jim;
His Friends were very good to him.
They gave him Tea, and Cakes, and Jam,
And slices of delicious Ham,
And Chocolate with pink inside
And little Tricycles to ride,
And read him Stories through and through,
And even took him to the Zoo--
But there it was the dreadful Fate
Befell him, which I now relate.

You know--or at least you ought to know,
For I have often told you so--
That Children never are allowed
To leave their Nurses in a Crowd;
Now this was Jim's especial Foible,
He ran away when he was able,
And on this inauspicious day
He slipped his hand and ran away!

He hadn't gone a yard when--Bang!
With open Jaws, a lion sprang,
And hungrily began to eat
The Boy: beginning at his feet.
Now, just imagine how it feels
When first your toes and then your heels,
And then by gradual degrees,
Your shins and ankles, calves and knees,
Are slowly eaten, bit by bit.
No wonder Jim detested it!
No wonder that he shouted "Hi!"

The Honest Keeper heard his cry,
Though very fat he almost ran
To help the little gentleman.
"Ponto!" he ordered as he came
(For Ponto was the Lion's name),
"Ponto!" he cried, with angry Frown,
"Let go, Sir! Down, Sir! Put it down!"
The Lion made a sudden stop,
He let the Dainty Morsel drop,
And slunk reluctant to his Cage,
Snarling with Disappointed Rage.
But when he bent him over Jim,
The Honest Keeper's Eyes were dim.
The Lion having reached his Head,
The Miserable Boy was dead!

When Nurse informed his Parents, they
Were more Concerned than I can say:--
His Mother, as She dried her eyes,
Said, "Well--it gives me no surprise,
He would not do as he was told!"
His Father, who was self-controlled,
Bade all the children round attend
To James's miserable end,
And always keep a-hold of Nurse
For fear of finding something worse.

Why is tonight (and last night) different than all other nights?

    Because it is the Passover.  Here is the wonderful poet, Primo Levi's, poem on and for the holiday.

Tell me: how is this night different
From all other nights?
How, tell me, is this Passover
Different from all other Passovers?
Light the lamp, open the door wide
So the pilgrim can come in,
Gentile or Jew;
Under the rags perhaps the prophet is concealed.
Let him enter and sit down with us;
Let him listen, drink, sing and celebrate Passover;
Let him consume the bread of affliction,
The Paschal Lamb, sweet mortar and bitter herbs.
This is the night of differences
In which you lean your elbow on the table,
Since the forbidden becomes prescribed,
Evil is translated into good.
We will spend the night recounting
Far-off events full of wonder,
And because of all the wine
The mountains will skip like rams.
Tonight they exchange questions:
The wise, the godless, the simple-minded and the child.
And time reverses its course,
Today flowing back into yesterday.
Like a river enclosed at its mouth.
Each of us has been a slave in Egypt,
Soaked straw and clay with sweat,
And crossed the sea dry-footed.
You too, stranger.
This year in fear and shame,
Next year in virtue and justice.

Good Friday

For I the Lord have slain

In evil long I took delight,
Unawed by shame or fear,
Till a new object struck my sight,
And stopp'd my wild career:
I saw One hanging on a Tree
In agonies and blood,
Who fix'd His languid eyes on me.
As near His Cross I stood.

Sure never till my latest breath,
Can I forget that look:
It seem'd to charge me with His death,
Though not a word He spoke:
My conscience felt and own'd the guilt,
And plunged me in despair:
I saw my sins His Blood had spilt,
And help'd to nail Him there.

Alas! I knew not what I did!
But now my tears are vain:
Where shall my trembling soul be hid?
For I the Lord have slain!
A second look He gave, which said,
"I freely all forgive;
This blood is for thy ransom paid;
I die that thou may'st live."

Thus, while His death my sin displays
In all its blackest hue,
Such is the mystery of grace,
It seals my pardon too.
With pleasing grief, and mournful joy,
My spirit now if fill'd,
That I should such a life destroy,
Yet live by Him I kill'd!

--John Newton (1725-1807)

With thanks to Canon Kendall Harmon for noting this poem today.

Preparation for Tenebrae

 It is a special thing to read the work of a poet with whom you have shared more than one glass of whiskey and with whom you have laughed and cried.  I have known David Slavitt for all of my adult life; he is the father of my best friend.  He is also a poet of great sensitivity, grace and, as contradictory as it may appear, power.  A number of years ago he tackled translating 61 of the Psalms.  With a modern poet's ear and a learned Jew's perspective, he found depths in David's lyrics which I had not appreciated until I read his take on them.
    This year, in preparation for the Tenebrae service during Holy Week, I am slowly working through Slavitt's translation and meditations on Lamentations.  It is a difficult task.  Not because the poetry is clumsy and dense, it is not, but because Slavitt has contextualized the Book within the tragic nature of the Jewish experience throughout the centuries.  As a Christian, it is not pleasant reading, however, it is vital reading.  His translations use Hebrew poetry's acrostic style that demonstrates Jeremiah's intent on imposing a semblance of order out of the seeming chaos of the world.  The verses have a flow and a sense of profundity that makes their use as Lectio Divina almost required.
    Get it.  Don't just borrow it, buy it.  Read it again, and again, and again.  Write in the margins, argue with it, rage at it and with it.  Make it your cry to the Lord as well.

Rich beyond measure

    In high school the English teachers couldn't understand why no one enjoyed poetry.  It was to us stilted expressions that seemed to be more self important than illuminating.  The problem, I was later to discover, was that the poems that were selected for us to read were, if there can be one word to describe them, safe.  They never caught us because they stood still.
    Not so Adrienne Rich.  Introduced to her through a woman I saw in college, I found that poetry when pushing the edges, calls forth feelings that prose can never touch.  Rich's poems are never safe.  That's why I find myself coming back to them, time and again.

My mouth hovers across your breasts
in the short grey winter afternoon
in this bed we are delicate
and touch so hot with joy we amaze ourselves
tough and delicate we play rings
around each other our daytime candle burns
with its peculiar light and if the snow
begins to fall outside filling the branches
and if the night falls without announcement
there are the pleasures of winter
sudden, wild and delicate your fingers
exact my tongue exact at the same moment
stopping to laugh at a joke
my love hot on your scent on the cusp of winter

Why didn't I read him before

    Every once in a while you will have tea with a friend who will say, "Oh, haven't you read him?  You must."  And after going back to your study, book in hand, you settle down and the wonder that is poetry absorbs you anew.  That happened to me today with the Polish poet, Czeslaw Milosz.  The 1980 Nobel laureate's work has a power that strikes deeply in one's very sinews.  The poems demand to be taken seriously, as if life itself depends upon it.  It is not an easy task to read him.  But do it.

    The poem below was written about the Warsaw ghetto. As a Pole, he speaks of the Holocaust from a perspective of one who knows all too well, how easily it all occurred.  He doesn't pretend that it was done by "them."  Such thoughts create psychological distance.  He wants to compress distance.  He wants us to have the strench in our clothes, our hair.  We should not, can not look away.  We must see what has been done.  In its horror.

A Poor Christian Looks at the Ghetto (1973)

Bees build around red liver,
  Ants build around black bone.
  It has begun: the tearing, the trampling on silks,
  It has begun: the breaking of glass, wood, copper, nickel,   silver, foam
  Of gypsum, iron sheets, violin strings, trumpets, leaves, balls,   crystals.
  Poof! Phosphorescent fire from yellow walls
  Engulfs animal and human hair.

  Bees build around the honeycomb of lungs,
  Ants build around white bone.
  Torn is paper, rubber, linen, leather, flax,
  Fiber, fabrics, cellulose, snakeskin, wire.
  The roof and the wall collapse in flame and heat seizes the   foundations.
  Now there is only the earth, sandy, trodden down,
  With one leafless tree.

  Slowly, boring a tunnel, a guardian mole makes his way,
  With a small red lamp fastened to his forehead.
  He touches buried bodies, counts them, pushes on,
  He distinguishes human ashes by their luminous vapor,
  The ashes of each man by a different part of the spectrum.
  Bees build around a red trace.
  Ants build around the place left by my body.

  I am afraid, so afraid of the guardian mole.
  He has swollen eyelids, like a Patriarch
  Who has sat much in the light of candles
  Reading the great book of the species.

  What will I tell him, I, a Jew of the New Testament,
  Waiting two thousand years for the second coming of Jesus?
  My broken body will deliver me to his sight
  And he will count me among the helpers of death:
  The uncircumcised.

Warsaw 1943